


West of the Moon

by srsly_yes



Series: West of the Moon [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Character Death, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between two world wars and two continents, House and Wilson meet by chance. Will they make the most of their fateful encounter?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue A: House

**Author's Note:**

> **Rating:** Mostly PG-13 with R and NC-17 chapters happening later.  
>  **Warning:** House and Wilson are approximately the age they first met in canon. This is a deathfic done up in a romantic 30s style. I promise to be gentle.  
>  **Disclaimer:** [H]ouse isn't mine and never will be. Historical and medical facts were constructed from spandex. It supports and shapes the story where necessary.  
>  **A/N:** This is based loosely on the 1932 movie, _One Way Passage_. Like the Hollywood films of that era, the story isn't a realistic depiction of the period. Not part of the Redux series.  
>  Can be read as a deathfic or not. For a happy ending, after reading the epilogue, continue to "West of the Reichenbach Falls."  
>  **Beta:** The ever awesome hwshipper. Many thanks to all my friends who encouraged me to finish Moon.

 

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000b1xrh/)   


  


Martin Lewis, Relics (Speakeasy Corner), 1928

  


**Link to 20s slang below.**  


**Prologue A: House**  
 _Manhattan, 1930_

He preferred spending his evenings in the ass end of _The Italian Gardens_. House did not come for the exceptional food, but for the unexceptional speakeasy in the back. The hooch was too weak to kill anyone and the poker game was as honest as could be expected from a bunch of mooks with a variety of tells. They were as easy to read as a Broadway marquee.

“I call and raise,” said Whitey.

House did not bat an eyelash. When the albino spoke it was an event. A conservative player, he sat most hands out. Occasionally, when he held a so-so hand, he went all in. Too bad for Whitey, he developed an uncontrollable itch behind his ear on those occasions.

House slowly pushed his chips toward the center. “I’ll see you.”

Across the table three kings fanned over the green felt.

House dropped his three queens on the table. Leisurely puffing on his cigar, he placed a jack on each side of the cardboard ladies. “Three roses among two thorns,” he announced, and pulled the pot toward his tower of chips. This was his lucky night. “Another hand, boys?”

No appetite for trouble, lady luck fled from the room when two goons walked in. Their overcoats were speckled with snow. One bruiser nonchalantly swiped at his lapels while the other dusted off his spats and knocked at the brim of his hat, expelling any moisture without ruining the felt. After they had cleaned off, they just stood, and stared, at him.

They were men on a mission. House knew it. The clientele, looking like wary jackrabbits, sensed it too. Conversation dried up like water on the Sahara. The squeak of a rag rubbing against a shot glass pierced the silence like a damsel in distress. The less fastidious of the two pointed a finger at him and spoke in a thick Brooklyn accent, “The Boss wants to see you.”

House leaned back in his chair until the front legs lifted off the ground and looked the messenger square in the eye. “Someone gotta boo-boo?” He patted his jacket. “Sorry, can’t help. Left my little black bag in my other suit.”

As he expected, his joke fell flat on its kisser. Morello never picked his men for their sense of humor.

“The Boss, he is worried about the state of your health.” The speaker rocked back on his heels then pushed out his chest. The jacket tightened around an ominous bump that broke the smooth lay of the fabric. “You don’t answer his phone calls. The Boss says to me, ‘Rocco, is something wrong with Doc that he don’t come to see me? I owe him a month’s salary. Maybe he broke his fingers and can’t pick up the phone. Maybe he fell down and lost his hearing. Take Brazzo and find Doc. Bring him to me so I can see for myself he’s all right. Me and him are overdue for a nice, long chat.”

House strummed an invisible guitar then bent his head as if he were tuning it. When the goon’s jaws tightened with impatience he answered, “Nope. My Gibson and I are as fine as fiddles. Ears and fingers all accounted for. Tell him to mail me my check.”

Brazzo’s eyes glazed over, but Rocco couldn’t be shook. “You know I can’t do that. Besides, the Boss. Said.” His hand dipped underneath his jacket toward the bulge…

A quick glance around the room assured House that the heavyweights wouldn’t chance dousing the innocent bystanders with bullets. However if he allowed them to escort him off the premises, he doubted he’d live long enough for snowflakes to sting his lips.

Not that people were lining up to help. Would-be witnesses studied the gin-stained floor or intently memorized the number of ice cubes in their drinks. That is, everyone except the fresh-faced, tuxedoed, pretty boy whose dimple pulsed every time his lips pressed together.

House had seen the southpaw at the speakeasy before, slumming with his college pals. He was always picking up the tab for their booze. While he never strayed from his pack, House would sometimes glance up and find dark brown eyes studying him from across the room. Tonight, Lefty was alone. A thumb and two fingers held a full glass, leaving two fingers free for a cigarette. The tumbler tilted in House’s direction in a subtle salute.

He wasn’t sure if the gesture was a muscle spasm or Lefty letting him know he was prepared to offer resistance against the two beefy professionals packing heat. House reconsidered whether it wasn’t prudent to leave quietly, then make a dash for freedom.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lefty shift from lounging against the bar to standing at attention. He stood stiffly and swayed. House recalculated the odds—definitely two against two, although his side was light on brawn.

“Anyone got a smoke?” Lefty asked the crowd.

Shit. What was he doing? House could not ascertain if Lefty was drunk or acting. Great distraction, you idiot. You deserve to get shot. House ruminated over the thought. Now _that_ would be a good distraction.

Lefty brazenly stumbled over to the muscle, and said, “’Scuse me, but do either of you have—?” He hiccupped, sloshing his drink onto Brazzo’s sleeve.

“Hey, watch where you’re going! That cleaning fluid is gonna burn a hole in the cashmere.”

Lefty persisted like he never heard. “A cigaret—?” and tripped over his own feet into Brazzo, who was still aggressively pawing at the drops of gin.

“I told you, get outta my face!” he roared, shoving Lefty. The glass and the gin flew out of his hand and into the mirror over the bar. Glass and silver shards exploded and scattered like shotgun pellets. Everyone except House ducked.

Adding to the chaos, he upturned the table. In a spray of cards and chips, he dove for the kitchen doors. His blood pounding in his ears, he wove between wide-eyed chefs and fearful waiters who held their platters over their heads to protect them from harm. He lunged at the doors of the banquet hall, almost stumbling when they swung open with no resistance. House vaulted past stunned patrons. A few savvy diners dropped to the floor and hid under linen-topped tables. The front door was coming up fast, but he decided not to chance it. Most likely more minions would be waiting at the entrance. He turned abruptly and dodged down a side hall with a little-used exit. The door stuck when he heaved at it. He rammed with his shoulder until it broke open, expelling him into the wet but mercifully empty side alley.

Pressing close to the damp brick, he tried to catch his breath as he inched toward the sidewalk. Clouds of moist air streamed from his mouth and nose. At the opening he saw what he had predicted, men mulling about the _Gardens’_ entrance.

He craned his neck further, checking for his car and driver. The Cadillac’s majestic grille gleamed a half-block to his right. Knowing Swifty had an uncanny knack for spotting trouble, House figured the loitering men would send up an alarm. He stuck out his hand for a moment, miming a gun with his index finger and thumb. Then he backed a few paces into the shadows, pulled up his collar, and waited.

The motor purred to life. With headlights off, it crawled toward the restaurant. Lowering into a sprinter’s crouch, House prepared to break a speed record bridging the gap between him and the car.

He rocketed out of the alley, but as soon as his feet touched the sidewalk he slid on a puddle of ice. His frantically windmilled his arms to keep his balance. He couldn’t have attracted more attention if he were leading a band.

His brilliant plan shredded under a barrage of bullets. Miraculously, still in one piece, he continued to charge across the lane of traffic to the car. Five feet away… slugs whistled past, missing him by inches. The evidence left pits and shiny gashes on neighboring automobiles.

Three feet… Two…

“Hurry up, Doc!” Swifty slapped the side of his car. The white-walls were spinning faster. “Once Louise warms up, she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

House heard the gangsters pounding behind him. He leaped for the handle, the door pulling him as he gripped it. A bullet grazed his sleeve and shattered the window. Springing into the back seat, his legs suddenly felt like they had burst into flame. Biting his lip, he dragged himself the rest of the way into the cab and pulled the door shut. As he flopped in the seat rocking in pain, he could hear a hailstone of bullets riddling the trunk.

Doubled up, he ripped the seams on his pants in order to inspect the damage. The wool twill that had covered his left leg was sticky with blood. There was a bullet hole that went straight through the muscle of his calf and out. To staunch the flow, he tied his handkerchief around it. His right leg however, had an ominous purple perforation that barely oozed. He knew from patching up bootleggers this kind of wound was the worse of the two. The bullet was deeply embedded into his thigh muscle, possibly lodged into the bone.

Unexpectedly, the car swung a hard right. Despite the plumes of pain shooting up his legs, House hitched up to see through the back window. The assailants were nowhere in sight. The angry buzz of bullets had given way to the comforting hum of the Caddy’s sixteen lovingly tended cylinders.

House released a shaky breath. Swifty wasn’t known as Swifty for nothing. But why fool himself? He would never be safe again. Morello would never give up.

At least if he had to live his life as a gimp, it would be short-lived.

He grunted as the car went over a railroad track, refreshing the throbbing in his legs. He leaned his head against the cold side window.

“Where we headed, Doc?”

“Princeton. Those palookas won’t expect us to go there.”

“Right, but my ape’s brain ain’t much more highly evolved than theirs neither. Never had a reason to hobnob with eggheads. You got directions?”

Another rough jolt from a pothole and spots began to cloud his vision. He dug into his pocket and tossed an address book onto the front seat. He mumbled, “Only one address for Princeton in there. When… you… get to Tren...ton, ask for di… rec…

He couldn’t remember what he was saying. He didn’t care. A murky black undertow swept him into a sea of darkness.

 

 

 

* * *

  
Mook = a foolish, insignificant, or contemptible person  
Hooch = booze, liquor  
Kisser = Front of the head, face.  
Heat = a gun  
Palookas = uncouth person, lout  
[ Jazz Age Slang](http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm)

  



	2. Prologue B: Wilson

  


[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000b27qf/)

_The Audition, East Hampton 1924 Frederick Childe Hassam_

Slang Glossary below

**Prologue B: Wilson**

_East Hampton, 1933_

Pink rose petals and sunshine packed into a young, athletic body. That was Ernestine to a ‘T’. Wilson could barely keep his hands off her, but he would. He must. _We’re over_ , he told himself.

“Ernie, about the wedding…”

“Stop rubbing your neck, Jimmy. There’s nothing to be nervous about. Mom and Dad weren’t happy at first when I told them you were the one guy for me. They were against me marrying out of my faith. But Mom and Dad came around like I knew they would. You blended in with our crowd as if you were one of us.”

“Ern.” He sighed indulgently. “There is no us or them.“

“What I mean is, they couldn’t be happier that you’re a doctor,” she said with a perky grin, expertly sidestepping the subject. Distracting him further, she stood on her toes and kissed him. Her arms snaked around his waist as she cuddled contentedly against his chest, her blonde curls tickling his chin. “You’re not quite the bee’s knees in their book, but you are in mine. Wait until we start a family. Daddy will insist on setting you up with a Park Avenue practice.” She gave him an extra squeeze. “We’re going to be so happy, Jimmy! I just know it,” she bubbled giddily like freshly popped champagne.

Fending off a wave of lightheadedness that he immediately attributed to her heavy perfume, he gently pushed her away.

He forced a nervous chuckle. “Not much of a compliment Ern, since bees don’t have knees.” He ran his hands over her silky arms and curled his fingers over hers, successfully maneuvering her into standing at arm’s length.

She giggled and smiled coyly. Her sapphire eyes shone through thick lashes.

“You’re not smiling, Jimsey.” Her mouth formed a pout. “What’s the matter?”

Struggling to inhale the Hampshire’s thin, blue blood air, he recited his well-rehearsed speech. “You know I love you, Ernestine, and I always will, but I can’t marry you. I’m going away.”

Her eyelashes fluttered as if she were waking from a dream. “Is this a joke? What do you mean we can’t get married? Everything is arranged. The invitations returned from the printers.”

“The parties, the holidays... you looked so beautiful, Ernie. I lost my head. It was rash of me to propose. It’s not going to work…for us.”

The petite fingers pulled from his grasp.

“You lost your head, did you? Do you need time to find it?” She didn’t look him in the eye. Instead, she became engrossed in her charm bracelet, her fingers tracing over each link until they rested upon the gold heart he had given her for her birthday.

Wilson wanted to take back everything he said, but he couldn’t. “Ernie, honey…”

“You want to push off the engagement, is that it?” Ernestine asked, her voice cold enough to frost a martini glass. “Why? We’ve known each other since college. At Christmas you said you were ready to settle down.”

“Apparently, I’m not, Ernie. It’s nothing you did. It’s just… our getting married. It’s not going to work.” He cleared his throat. “I’m breaking off our engagement.”

“What!” She planted her hands on her waist. “I didn’t take you for a cad.” One hand went up. “No, cad isn’t good enough! You’re a cold-hearted bastard!”

Her cutting accusation was like a physical blow. He found it hard to think or speak. Something small and shiny bounced off his chest, her engagement ring. Kneeling, he swept up the glittering bauble and placed it on the fireplace mantle. “I’m very sorry, Ernie. One day you’ll find the right guy. I hope you two will have a long and happy life together.”

Ernestine looked at him with thin-lipped, white-faced contempt. Abruptly, she turned her back on him, her pleated hem lifting and showing a titillating glimpse of her thigh. He tilted his head for a better view, but was pulled up short when she icily spoke through clenched teeth, “Daddy was right about you. Get out of my sight.”

He ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip as he searched for something more to say but immediately threw in the towel. He could only make matters worse.

Grabbing his hat he hurried from the house. He dove behind the wheel of his yellow roadster and drove, top-down, non-stop into Manhattan. The cold breeze scrubbed away the last of Ernie’s clinging scent.

Parking his car on a quiet side street, he shut off the ignition and was about to fasten down the cloth roof when he thought better of it. He snatched his suitcase stowed in the trunk and tossed the keys onto the driver’s seat. He was sure that within a one-block radius there were dozens of enterprising souls who were down-on-their-luck and deserved a break. He rubbed his thumb over the door’s buttery smooth finish in one last, fond farewell.

Buttoning his overcoat against the blustery wind that raced through the cavernous street of tightly packed buildings, he headed to a main thoroughfare and hailed a cab.

At Times Square, he generously tipped the cabby before heading up the marble steps of an elegant hotel. Wielding his most charming smile he signed the guest book with an alias, and ended the scrawled signature with a disfiguring backward flourish that guaranteed the name illegible. With a wink to the hotel clerk, he peeled off a number of bills that amply covered his stay and ensured privacy.

* * *

The following morning Wilson breathed in the briny tang of sea air as the New York skyline faded into the horizon, his guilt over jilting Ernie fading with it. All that was left was a thin residue of regret about what might have been.

She really would be better off without him.

As the ship’s wake erased the last dark wisp of land, he left the rail for the solitude of his cabin, savoring his newfound freedom.

 

 

 

* * *

  
Bee’s knees = terrific  
Roadster = Two seat convertible  
[ Jazz Age Slang](http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm)  


  



	3. Chapter 3

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000dfxwr/)

  


Shanghai, the Bund, 1930

Slang Glossary Below

**Part 1**

_Shanghai, Cathay Hotel, New Year’s Eve, 1934_

An insistent knock at the door broke Wilson’s concentration. His bow tie would have to stay askew for now. Smoothing his starched shirt against his chest, he walked to the door. “Yes?”

“Room service.”

“I didn’t order anything.”

“A bottle of champagne for New Year’s Eve, sir. Compliments of the management.”

The welcoming sound of tinkling glasses carried through the door. He swung it open and scowled when he saw who was holding the ice bucket and champagne.

“Richard.”

“Sorry about my little subterfuge, Jimmy, but you did give me the slip for over a year. Turnabout’s fair play.” He wedged through the opening and proceeded to set up an impromptu bar, twisting the wire off the bottle, and producing champagne glasses from his pockets.

“What are you doing here, Richard?” Really, there was no reason to ask that question, but he wanted to hear what baloney his brother was going to hand him.

A soft pop issued from the bottle with the cork's release. Richard handed him a glass and spoke quietly. “You ran away from home and now big brother is here to bring you back.” He rested his hand on Wilson’s arm. Slightly shorter, Richard tilted his head up and inspected Wilson’s face. For a moment, the cool façade dropped and Richard’s features crinkled with concern. “How are you?”

Wilson dropped his gaze and studied the bubbles swirling upward in his champagne, erupting into tiny geysers when they reached the surface. He tossed the liquid down in one swallow. “I’m fine, Richard. You wasted your time tracking me down.”

“Unlike you, I take my duty to my family seriously, and you are family, James. For crying out loud, didn’t you think everyone would notice when you didn’t show up for Great Aunt Lillian’s birthday? Gran, our cousins, everyone there thought you were too ill to attend. I spent the whole night making up excuses. I wasn’t about to tell them you were globetrotting.”

“How selfish of me. If I were a better brother I would have died and provided you with a better explanation.”

“The point is, you should be resting, not exerting yourself. This is foolishness, traipsing halfway around the world. You should be under a physician’s care.”

Wilson poured more champagne, downing it as quickly as the first. “I am under a doctor’s care, my own."

“Yes, yes, I know,” Richard agreed impatiently. "You have the sheepskin and stethoscope to prove it.”

“Hear me out, Richard. I spent most of my early life looking through windows at Central Park because of my asthma. When I entered high school, I thought the family’s cardiovascular problems were behind me. That Danny...” Wilson paused to clear the huskiness that suddenly threatened to overtake his voice. “…was its last victim. Then after Ernestine and I got engaged, I wanted to start our life out on the right foot and went for a physical.”

He shook his head. “Normal was never in the cards for me. I want to make the most of the time I have left.” He grabbed a cigarette from the nightstand and lit it as he sank onto the bed. “I refuse to live like an invalid.”

Richard joined him. “And you’re not hiding anything from me? You're feeling okay?”

The sincerity in his brother’s voice and behavior was hard to resist. He was pleased he could answer honestly. “I am.”

“Good!” Richard bumped shoulders. “No hard feelings?” he said, just like when they were kids and made up after an argument.

Childhood memories flooded his thoughts. Wilson remembered the good times he shared with his brother. When cold weather prevented Richard and his friends from going outside, he would allow Wilson to sit in on their conversations. That was mostly how he had learned about music, movies, and girls. He smiled and bumped back. “None.”

“Then you’ll help me out of a jam?”

Wilson closed his eyes and chided himself for being a chump. He had fallen right into Richard’s trap. “What kind of jam?”

“When months went by and you didn’t come home, I promised the family I’d find you and bring you back. You gotta do me this one favor and let them see for themselves. They’re worried sick.”

“Were you not listening?”

“I heard. But you know how the folks are, and Gran’s not getting any younger. If anything happens to her the family will say it was my fault and put me in cold storage until 1950.”

“Explain to me how family members _not_ meddling into your affairs could be considered bad?”

“James, please. They’re not Rasputin’s spawn. This would only be a visit, a month tops.”

Wilson demonstrated his unwillingness to consider the offer by blinking and not saying anything.

“Come on, two weeks?”

He carefully flicked ash from the cigarette’s smoldering tip into a glass ashtray.

“All right.” Richard raised his hands in surrender. “One week, and I’ll personally escort you back to a ship, train, or zeppelin of your choice. We gotta deal?”

Admittedly, he’d spent over a year kicking around Asia’s larger cities and was due for a change. New York would be a good launching point to see Paris. He always wanted to walk down the Champs Élysées. If Richard proved to be uncooperative he could always escape. He did it once. He could do it again.

He put out his hand to shake on it. “Deal. When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow. Actually, the ship sails at dawn the day after, but we’re expected to board the evening before.” His brother withdrew two tickets from inside his jacket. “Start packing.”

“Your confidence is awe-inspiring, Richard.” Wilson returned to the mirror to adjust his lopsided bow tie.

“I’m offering you an adventure. How can you resist?” Richard loosened his tie and stretched out on the bed, his arms propping his head. “An ocean liner with stops in Hong Kong, Yokohama, Honolulu, and San Francisco. From there we’ll breeze into New York on the new streamliner. I have it all figured out.”

Wilson turned and gazed at his cock-sure brother. He envied how Richard could map out months and years in advance. Since the day in the specialist’s office, Wilson never planned beyond a sunrise.

Glancing one last time at his reflection and satisfied that the bow’s loops and tails were even, Wilson hooked his tuxedo jacket off the bedpost and shrugged it on. “Already saw Hong Kong and Japan, but not the rest.” He walked to the door. “My suitcase is in the closet if you want to get a jump on packing. I’m going out. Happy New Year, Richard.”

As he opened the door, he heard squealing mattress springs and the pounding of feet. He tensed as an arm clasped his shoulder, but the touch was light and friendly, not restraining.

“Hey, I’m not letting you out of my sight until we board ship, little brother. Besides, I just arrived in Shanghai and want to see the sights. It has been a long time since the Wilson boys painted the town red.”

 

_tbc..._

 

* * *

  
 _Next installment: House and Wilson’s reunion._ :-) 

 

**Slang Words**  
Baloney = Nonsense  
Chump = Fool, dupe  
Cold storage = Shun  
[ Jazz Age Slang](http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm)  


  


  



	4. Chapter 4

 

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000b4q90/)   


  


Shanghai Nightlife Friedrich Schiff. ca 1930s - 1940s

  


 

**Part 2**

“House!” Mei squealed. Grabbing the cardboard hat from the top of the stack sitting on the bar, she cut across the dance floor to greet him. She swooped an arm around his neck and pulled him down to her level. When he straightened, he sported a waxy red kiss and a garishly colored cone upon his head.

She stepped away and spun around, modeling her outfit. “How do you like?”

Instead of her slinky, jewel-toned, slit-to-the-thigh cheongsam, she wore a tuxedo. Her trim, boyish figure usually left her at a disadvantage compared to the more well-endowed girls, but not tonight. She was desirable in a faintly erotic way. “I must remember to thank Marlene when I return to the States,” he said with approval.

Her eyes opened wide with naïve admiration. “When you see Miss Marlene, tell her the girls at Mischa’s worship her.” She waved toward the blond haired man making change at the register. “Mischa took us on our day off to see _Morocco_. We decided to dress like her for New Year’s. That is, all the girls except…” She mimed weighing hefty melons. “…Ling.” She narrowed her eyes. “She thinks her girls are too big to be stuffed down a shirt.”

“Ling is a handful.” House agreed dryly.

Mei’s pearly white grin assured him his remark had sailed right over her head.

Mindful of his cane, she threaded her hand through the crook of his arm and led him into the smoky interior. “You came at a good time. Eddie just took a break. Will you play for us?”

Mischa loved expats even more than he loved Marlene Dietrich. The bar was awash with thirsty Americans. The only available seat was the piano stool. “I will, if you bring me a scotch.”

She nodded and let go of his arm when they reached the far corner with the grand piano. “Play _I Can’t Give You Anything But Love_ , pretty please, House? The first drink will be on me.”

He nodded and made himself comfortable, immediately tossing aside the idiot hat. He tested the pedals and ran his fingers over the well-worn keys. In spite of the noise, the lofty room had excellent acoustics. After a few warm up chords, he launched into a jaunty rendition of her request. By the time he finished the introduction, several girls had partnered up and sauntered onto the dance floor, blowing grateful kisses at him. They never seemed to tire of the song.

He continued to play a medley of upbeat tunes. Men soon joined the frenetic dancing, pairing up with the women. When everyone’s brows glistened, he switched to a sultry, romantic love song. Lost in the music, the couples snuggled together. House estimated he and Irving Berlin would be responsible for the birth of at least five babies by October.

He glanced at his watch. The crowd at the bar had thinned drastically. No hot-blooded male wanted to be stuck holding an empty glass at midnight when he could have his arm around the waist of a luscious party girl.

From the dance floor, a girl flapped her hand in his direction, happy with his piano playing. He saluted her with his empty glass and decided to spin out the tune a little longer. He saw her signal Mischa to send him a fresh drink. If it weren’t for the non-stop refills, he might have felt neglected. He shrugged off the depressing thought. He had bigger game in mind. Ling, the casaba queen, had yet to make an entrance.

A chittering sound drew his attention to the beaded curtain separating the bar from the card room. There was Ling, in all her voluptuous glory. She was encased in shimmering turquoise silk, and curvier than a mountain stream. Not only was she stunning, but he admired her shrewdness. She was a glittering bauble in a sea of black. What he did not care for was the accessory draped around her neck—the arm of a man who possessed a charming smile and killer dimples. Distinctive, hard to forget dimples.

House lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, his eyes never leaving the handsome pair. They were backlit by the card room, like lovers on the silver screen. He studied their animated flirting with the avid interest of a back row voyeur, but the coils of pleasure that normally laced through his loins at such a sight lay unnaturally inert. Frustrated, he stubbed the cigarette out. His interest in playing the piano was as dead as the ash.

By chance, a seat at the bar opened up. He took it as a sign to desert his current post. A few star-struck couples continued dancing to a make-believe orchestra, but most stood around as if they were shipwrecked survivors treading water. He brandished a soulful expression by way of apology. The poor kids would have to wait for Eddie’s return.

Settling onto his new perch of cracked red leather, he tilted his drink to his mouth, preparing to medicate away the sight of Ling and her beau, but their reflections loomed in front of him, filling the mirror. Giving up any pretext of disinterest, he checked the time on his watch and drummed his fingers on the counter while he watched. Any minute now, Ling would be beckoning Killer Dimples upstairs to her room. She was on the first step holding his hand. House slumped in his seat.

But he was wrong. Killer Dimples was rooted to the base of the staircase, waving to someone in the card room. A less well-constructed replica without the etched cheeks joined him. House gauged the guy a little older, a little shorter, and a whole lot eager to spend time with Ling.

This was getting interesting. Even more so, with Killer Dimples heading toward an empty seat at the opposite end of the bar where Mischa stood. He could see that the émigré had also watched the little drama unfold. A manicured eyebrow arched in appreciation.

House dropped his gaze and strategically knocked his elbow into his neighbor’s untouched drink, splattering the contents onto the man’s shirt and lap. He mimed surprise and deep regret while the patsy uttered a string of furious oaths and departed for the washroom.

With the stool now vacant, House immediately focused his attention on his glass, printing wet circles onto the glass-topped, mahogany counter. The design would rival any artwork of Picasso’s. His stomach tensed with a small stab of excitement when a puff of warm breath tickled his ear. Under half-closed eyelids, House glanced into the mirror. Killer Dimples was warming the freshly unoccupied seat and signaling a bartender.

Mischa immediately put his second-in-command in charge of his cash drawer and trotted over, his blue eyes sparkling, his thick head of wavy hair bouncing against his collar. “Happy New Year, Wilson,” he said with a thick Russian accent. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Thought you left Shanghai.”

“Still here, but not quite the night owl I was when I first arrived.” Wilson answered. “I wanted to explore Shanghai in daylight.”

“But Shanghai has more to offer after sunset,” Mischa said with a suggestive leer.

House watched Wilson check out the people at the bar, barely bobbing his head in agreement. If he caught the subtext he was deliberately ignoring it.

Leaning his elbows on the countertop and striking a well-rehearsed but casual pose, Mischa wasn’t giving up. House was forced to do the unthinkable.

“Refresh my drink, Mischa, and bring my pally, Wilson here, whatever he wants.”

He could sense Wilson stiffen in his chair.

Wilson cocked his head toward House’s glass. “I’ll have what my… pal is having.”

Mischa glanced at House, opened his mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it, and slunk away.

To House’s disappointment, the drink offer obviously failed to spark any memories or kindle a conversation.

Wilson cleared his throat and spun around in his chair. Eddie had returned. Knee jiggling to the the music, Wilson’s eyes never left the couples swirling around the dance floor.

House said nothing. He fidgeted with his cane until Mischa returned with the drinks, plunking them down without saying a word. With a shake of his shaggy mane, he whirled around and left.

“Cheers,” House said, and raised his glass, uncertain whether or not Wilson would join him in a toast.

“Cheers.” Wilson replied with a thin smile that could have passed for a grimace. “Thanks.”

They clinked glasses.

After downing almost two-thirds of his drink in silence, Wilson pulled out a gold cigarette case. Eyes closed, he inhaled the smoke before smartly clicking his lighter shut.

House patted his pocket, pretending his own pack had grown legs and had taken a powder. “You got an extra?”

Wilson hesitated then placed his case and lighter on a cocktail napkin, sliding it toward him. “You know what these do to your lungs?”

“Turns them black, just like my heart.” House snatched four from the case, lit one and pocketed three.

“Only four? Wilson said. “Why not take them all?”

“In honor of the four horseman.”

Leisurely blowing out a curling puff of smoke, Wilson shrugged his shoulder. “Of course. Makes perfect sense.”

They lapsed into silence again. Their glasses nearly empty, House was sure Wilson would return to the card room if he didn’t dispense an amusing observation.

“So, since the last time I saw you, you became either a doctor or a mortician. By your need to be speak judgmentally, my money is on doctor. Stiffs are beyond help.”

Apparently, it was a curve ball Wilson never saw coming. A deer frozen in the glare of an oncoming car’s headlights looked less startled. “What? Have we met before?”

“Not formally introduced, but you helped me out of a jam. House, Gregory House.”

“James.” Wilson said. “You know the rest.” But he continued to look puzzled.

“Remember the _Italian Gardens_? The speakeasy? Two thugs?”

The glazed eyes took on a shimmer of understanding. “You were the fella playing poker? Doc?”

“Me. In the flesh.” House held up his cane. “Minus several ounces.”

“Damn,” Wilson swore under his breath. “I heard gunfire. When I got to the street, it was empty. Wally said it was a misunderstanding. Everyone was all right and to forget about it. He gave me a bottle of his best rotgut and closed early.” Wilson bit his lip and averted his eyes. “It’s my fault you got hurt.”

“Don’t be a sap.” House said, dismissing Wilson’s confession. However, guilt did have its uses. “But you know what they say, ‘Whenever someone saves another's life, he's responsible for his debts forever.’ You can start living up to your obligation by paying for the next round of drinks.”

“If I didn’t know better…” Wilson waved at Mischa, pointed to a bottle of scotch on the shelf and peeled off bills from his money clip. “I’d think this was all a setup, having me sit here.”

Mischa glowered at House. He sent one of his bartenders over, who swiftly filled their glasses and placed the bottle between them.

The drinks lubricated Wilson’s tongue. He filled House in on Morello--still holding tightly onto his fiefdom. They compared notes on which deli in New York made the best pastrami sandwiches. Wilson insisted on Katz’s while House argued Saul’s was better, and had the best sauerkraut. Wilson was waxing enthusiastic about the last play he saw on the Great White Way when the lights dimmed and there were whoops and cheer.

Midnight.

Following an introductory arpeggio, _Auld Lang Syne_ sprang to life on the piano. Everyone sang along. Confetti and streamers gyrated through the air. Strangers slapped House on the back.

Swarming like honeybees, Mischa’s girls spread out from the dance floor, delivering hugs and kisses to one and all. A giggling flock descended on House, nudging each other to get closer so they could kiss him. Peering over the mob of dark hair, he saw that Wilson received the same royal treatment. Swaying on the stool with a sloppy grin, he appeared to be under the influence of liquor and female attention. As suddenly as they had come, the hive flew away. Wilson’s smile lingered, but the interruption had created an awkward gap in their conversation.

Meeting halfway around the world on the cusp of a new year was cause for special celebration. But what could House do? Their new friendship was as fragile as a glass tumbler…

“I suppose a New Year’s kiss is out of the question?” House asked, pausing for a beat. When there was no discernible reaction, he said, “Let’s toast to old times and déjà vu.” He filled their glasses, waiting for Wilson to raise his. “To us!” he said. In one fluid gesture, he downed his scotch and tossed his glass into the mirror, causing an undulating crack to run down its length.

Wilson stared in wide-mouthed shock, which quickly faded into amusement. He hauled off and released his glass, striking exactly where House’s had, dead center. “To us!”

The second assault left the frame empty. Sparkling glass splinters littered the floor.

House hid his smirk as Mischa marched over, his face borscht red, letting loose a torrent of Russian. House turned to Wilson. “He says, fork over a hundred clams unless you want an international incident. The mirror was a family heirloom. It belonged to his dear, departed grandmother who gave it to him right before she was hung for thievery and murder.”

Mischa eyes blazed death-rays at him as Wilson dropped bills into his open palm. Not until the wad of cash in Wilson's hand had significantly dwindled, did he stomp off.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. “Great start to the New Year, House. I’m a hundred bucks lighter and have another seven years bad luck tacked onto the last time I saw you.”

“It’s a cheap way to guarantee living another seven years—good or bad. Do you regret it?” House reached under the counter and grabbed two clean glasses. He poured the last of the scotch into them.

“Actually, I don’t.” Wilson said. He seemed genuinely surprised by his own admission.

“How about we test our bad luck later today? I know this floating crap game—“

“Sorry, James will be busy,” a voice said behind him.

House scowled as he turned around. It was Wilson’s cut-rate twin, his hair freshly plowed into a series of lines by a wet comb. The white collar was smeared with Ling’s favorite lipstick.

“Let me guess, killjoy brother.”

“I call him Richard,” Wilson said as he stood up and buttoned his jacket. “We’re boarding a ship for the US tonight.”

Richard was pressuring him to leave Shanghai, House deduced. He could hear it in Wilson’s voice. It was either that or House’s own situation was throwing off his judgment.

“Maybe we’ll bump into each other when you get back. We can go to Nathan’s in Coney and grab a hot dog.” Wilson held out his hand.

“Yeah, sure,” House answered. He gripped Wilson’s hand and shook it. It was warm and firm and fit perfectly in his. “We’ll do that.”

After they left, House hunched over his bar glass, nursing his drink. Most of the patrons had retreated upstairs with a girl or had gone home. Mischa came over, wiping invisible stains from the counter, the anger from earlier forgotten. “Wilson is good to look at, yes? You two hit it off.”

House heaved himself off the barstool. When Mischa wanted to talk, it was time to head for the door.

“Hey, did you hear me, House? Are you gonna see Wilson again?”

“Nope.”

 

 

* * *

**Slang Words**  
Sap = Foolish or gullible person  
Taken a powder = Depart quickly  
Great White Way = Theater section of Broadway  
Clams = Dollars  
[ Jazz Age Slang](http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm)  
[Dirty 30s! - Slang of the 30s](http://www.paper-dragon.com/1939/slang.html)

Marlene Dietrich in a scene from [Morocco](http://youtu.be/jO0h190oboE), 1930. A pre-code film.

 

  



	5. Chapter 5

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000dhwt7/)   


  


Baggage Label from the Astor House, Shanghai ca. 1920s

**Part 3**

He awoke from a bad dream into a nightmare. Cold steel bit into his left wrist, assuring him he was no longer asleep. He was handcuffed to the headboard. In the past, hardware attached to a bed was a prelude to a passionate evening, but this morning it spelled trouble. A man the size of an ancient oak stood over him. When he bent down, House could swear he could hear wood creak.

The tree spoke. “About time you opened those blue peepers of yours.”

He groaned softly as his memory collided with his hangover. “Donahue,” he said. He winced as the sound of his voice set off the _Anvil Chorus_ inside his head. “Take off the cuff. I gotta pee.”

Donahue pulled a tiny key from his pocket. “I would get an ice bucket, but the hotel will charge me.” He released the bracelet from House’s wrist.

House sat up, rubbing his arm and making a fist. As circulation returned he experienced a rush of pins and needles.

He was still in last night’s shirt and trousers. “Where’s my cane?”

“Gotta go by the book, House. It’s in a safe place. You’ll get it back when we check out. For now, it’s my insurance that you’re not going anywhere. You can get to the bathroom without it.”

“Yep. Can’t be too careful with a cripple.” Accentuating his limp to drive home his point, House made his way to the bathroom. When he returned, Donahue was on the phone with room service.

Donahue covered the receiver with his hand. “You want anything? Bacon and eggs? French toast?” He patted the paunch overflowing his belt. “I’m ordering the works for myself.”

“Black coffee,” House answered, while managing to fight off a wave of nausea. He sunk onto the mattress and cradled his head. “Any regulation against fresh air?”

“Only if we were on the ground floor.” Donahue unlocked the French doors to the balcony. “Since we’re on the fifth, no problem. Anything for J. Edgar’s star witness.”

A cool breeze sliced through the stale air and cleared his head. “Is getting ambushed in my room before sunrise on New Year’s Day, and slapping an iron on my wrist, all part of the star treatment?”

Donahue shrugged. “It is, after you ignored our friendly invitations and fled the country.”

“You mean the summons? The court date must have slipped my mind.”

“Look, House. It’s up to you whether you want to make this easy or hard on yourself.” He pulled up a chair, took two cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and offered House the other. House shook his head.

“It’s like this.” Donahue held up a thumb and a finger. “There’s a file yay thick back in D.C. about you.”

“You have nothing that will stick,” House scoffed.

“You worked for Morello—“

“I patched up a few of his guys who were bleeding all over my doorstep. It’s my duty as a doctor, and I like to keep my stoop free of dead bodies. It’s bad for business.”

“This ain’t a laughing matter, House. These guys are murderers. And we got a flock of canaries willing to swear you were on Morello’s bankroll. You never reported him as your employer or declared any income from him.”

“Do I look like Capone? I’m small fry. Chump change.”

“Don’t you know it’s the little things that trip you up?” Donahue held up a vial and shook it. Pills rattled inside. “No one likes a dope addict.”

“I need those.” House grabbed the container, poured out two, and dry swallowed. “They help me cope with my bum leg.”

“You self-prescribe. There are no records in the States that indicate you ever obtained a single legal prescription. And these…” He unfolded a rectangle of paper. Five crudely shaped, chalk-white tablets sat in his palm. House recognized them as part of a hidden stockpile that he had taped behind the dresser. “…are illegal.”

“Not in Shanghai.”

“But this stuff has a bad reputation.” Donahue pointed a finger at him. “Juries don’t like junkies. If the district attorney happens to bring up the information among his charges, they’ll consider it their civic duty to convict you.”

Donahue dropped the pills in his pocket. “Hoover wants Morello. Turn federal witness and we’ll protect you. Don’t, and you’ll go to jail.”

“Either way, there’s no future in my future. If I talk, your protection ends as soon as I put my John Hancock on the statement. If I don’t, I’ll go to the big house. Either way Morello will put out a hit on me. He’ll never rest easy believing I might sing.”

“Not necessarily. If you speak up, others will too. He can’t put a contract on everyone.”

House scrubbed his face with his hands. He couldn’t believe he was expected to fall for such crap. “Sure he can, and he will. Haven’t you heard of a little thing called the Depression? Your average Joe would sell out his saintly Aunt Gladys for making elderberry wine in her basement if it kept his kids from starving. All Morello has to do is toss a few bucks around town and whisper in a few ears and I’ll be sporting cement overshoes. A waste really, since formal attire is not my style.”

Donahue shrugged his shoulders and got up. “It’s no skin off my nose what you decide to do. My job was to find you and bring you back to the States.” He pushed back his cuff, exposing his watch. “Breakfast will be here in a few minutes. You still need to clean up and pack. We’re due on the _Asama Maru_ in less than three hours.”

Bile rose in House’s throat. His reprieve from Morello had finally run out. He pushed off the bed, and went to the balcony, deeply inhaling the fresh air.

He looked down at the courtyard. It was unusually peaceful. The habitual early risers had taken New Year's Day off to stay in their beds and nurse their hangovers. The pool was as serene as the back of a playing card, two thirds of it muddy blue opal from the shadow cast by the hotel, the rest, shimmering aquamarine from the beams of sunlight.

“Nice view.” Donahue said, leaning in the doorway.

“It’s better from here. You can see the pool.”

“Means nothing to me. Never had a reason to swim. I was raised in Nevada’s high desert.”

There was a knock on the door. Room service. Donahue headed back inside as House said, “That’s too bad for you.”

The crazy plan came out of the blue, fueled strictly by fear. House gulped down a couple more pills and slid a small patio table next to the balcony rail. They held his weight as he climbed up. Not taking his eyes off his target, he heard Donahue’s angry voice behind him.

“What the hell are you doing!?”

House stepped off into space, and scrunched into a ball as he plummeted to earth. His life might be over or…

He pierced the chill water with an explosive splash, plunging downward into the silent depths. When his shoes scraped the bottom of the pool, he pushed off with his good leg. Lungs burning, he burst to the surface with a triumphant gasp and sucked in sweet air.

Swimming the length of the pool with sure, swift strokes, he imagined Donahue frantically pushing the elevator button, then resorting to the stairs. Lumbering down each flight while huffing and puffing his way to the ground floor. House’s escape was all but guaranteed. Yards away from the side entrance, he’d hail a cab and get lost in the Bund’s traffic.

As he climbed up the steps there was a thunderous blast followed by water sloshing over the sides of the pool. He heard half-choked words, sputtering, “Help! I… can’t…!”

 _Hell!_ House’s closed his eyes. One heroic, impulsive idiot was more than enough to last a lifetime. A second was overkill.

His sopping wet clothes felt like a hitchhiking anaconda as he hauled himself onto the decking. Michigan’s Great Lakes pooled at his feet.

At the deep end, Donahue flailed in a panic. House attempted help from afar. He cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “We need help here! A man is drowning!”

Donahue was losing the battle. A hand slapped the surface as his head went under. House counted the seconds. There was no encore. The waves had lost their sharp crests and were eroding into rolling hills. Soon, the water would be like glass.

“Fuck.”

Moving as fast as he could, House lurched around the edge of the pool until he sighted Donahue’s hair floating like black seaweed, writhing right beneath the surface.

He dived into the water.

 

 

_**A/N:** Thanks for your patience. I promise the rest of the fic will be House/Wilson._  


* * *

**Slang**  
Big house = prison  
Canaries = informers  
Sing = confess


	6. Chapter 6

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000d66h8/)

  


  


Postcard of the NYK (Nippon Yusen Kaisha) line's, _Asama Maru_  


**Part 4**

House counted out pills while stifling a yawn. Jails were jails, although the _Asama Maru_ had to be the snazziest. Infirmaries on the other hand, were infirmaries. They had no upside. They were white rooms filled with an endless number of whining, boring people. He had no one to blame but himself for getting caught and volunteering to do time in the ship’s infirmary.

Dr. Kimura scribbled something down on a pad and hung up the phone. Indicating the Great Pyramid of vials that House had carefully constructed, he held out a small rectangle of paper with a neatly written number. “A new case, Dr. House. Since the waiting room is nearly empty, may I impose upon your good nature to deliver your,” he winked, “secret remedy to our latest seasick patient?” He bent his head, checking his watch. “If you honor me with this favor, I insist you take the rest of the day off.”

House seized the opportunity and a bottle from the eighth wonder of the world, without it tumbling into chaos, and eased up from the chair with his cane. He said, “Arigato gozaimashita,” and left.

He meandered through corridors and public rooms on his way to the cabin, which was located in the stern. The full length of the ship lay between it and the infirmary. Strolling along the ‘A’ deck he dipped into the first class lounge where they were serving tea. He threaded his way around tables, nodding hellos, stuffing crustless sandwiches into his mouth with one bite, slipping scones into his pockets when no one was looking.

His second-class accommodations might be equivalent to a top-notch hotel, but why restrict himself to a gilded cage when a platinum one was available? This was one of the many privileges second class lacked and had motivated him to offer his services to Kimura. That was, the amenities along with an official pass to roam freely about the ship. Within a couple of days, aggressive squatter’s rights had made him a fixture. Even the genuine first class passengers assumed he belonged there.

Chumming his way around the room without actually engaging in any conversation, he slipped out the door to the sun-blessed promenade deck and continued his journey.

Nope, he had no one to blame but himself for saving Donahue’s life. As soon as he had dragged the drowning man onto land Donahue had turned back into a cop, clasping a giant paw around House’s wrist, and not letting go until they returned to the room. Despite their late arrival due to their morning dip, the ship was still moored to the dock when the taxi swung into the passenger zone.

House craned his neck at the looming ship casting the pier into shadow. The driver got out and helped the porter with the luggage. He asked, “Are we sharing a bed? Be warned. I’ve been told my snoring can rivet sheet metal.”

Donahue leveled a stare at him. ”We have two adjoining cabins in second class… unless you want to share one in first?”

“You’re not my type.” House answered. “Not even after giving me this bracelet.” House raised his handcuffed left hand, lifting Donahue’s right. “When do these come off?”

“You’re cocky and foolhardy, House, but don’t think I’m ungrateful for you saving my life. I’m willing to go easy on you, but I also gotta follow the book. The handcuffs stay on until we're on the ship. Stay out of trouble. Don’t even drop cigarette ash on the swanky carpet, and we can act like we don’t know each other. That is, we can go our separate ways until Honolulu.” Donahue grimaced apologetically. “I’ll have to lock you in the brig until we leave for San Francisco.” He opened the cab door, and began to climb out.

House refused to budge.

“Donahue. I’m not a criminal… yet. Spare me a little dignity?”

Donahue appeared to contemplate the request. “How about a compromise?” He picked up his overcoat and threw it over the handcuffs, hiding them. To anybody watching, they would appear to be friends walking side by side.

“Thanks,” House said, already distracted. He filed away the new information about the brig while mulling over possible strategies for escape.

After their conversation, pieces of his plan fell into place. On the first night, choppy seas felled more than half the passengers. House volunteered his services to the ship’s doctor, which was a two-for-one, affording him freedom while impressing Donahue that he was a reformed citizen. Donahue was more than happy to relinquish House’s leash to Kimura while he spent his days blistering his skin poolside.

And like today, Kimura wasn’t about to overtax a passenger with work.

Preoccupied with what he should do with his free time after the delivery, House was shaken from his reverie when two porters loaded down with an insignia riddled, brown-colored steamer trunk and matching suitcases passed him in the corridor. They stopped and knocked at the same cabin indicated on Kimura’s slip. He almost faltered when he saw who greeted the men, waving them inside.

“Hey!” House shouted as the door began to close.

He was rewarded with a fortune’s worth of emotions flitting across the occupant’s face. Inquisitiveness, recognition, and amusement made entrances before astonishment grabbed center stage. “House?”

“Wilson.”

With a quick backward glance, Wilson stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him until there was only a small crack. He spoke in a hushed voice, “What are you doing here? Last time I saw you, you had the hots for a crap game.”

House shrugged. “It went cold, fast.” He produced the bottle of pills from his pocket and shook it. “You asked for these? As a doctor you should know better, unless you flavor your coffee with them.”

“Not so loud.” Snapping the door shut, Wilson plucked the container from his hand. “It’s for my brother. Passengers were gabbing about the ship’s miracle cure and he was desperate.” He shifted to the side as the porters left the room with less exalted luggage. “We’re trading rooms. There’s less pitch back here. Between modern engineering and old-fashioned quackery, Richard should be back to normal in no time.”

“You have a long wait for normal.” House drawled, then brightened with mock understanding. “Oh I get it. You mean normal for Richard.”

Wilson huffed in response and plunged his hands in his pockets, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Can you come out and play?” House asked, breaking the silence. He saw a mischievous gleam in the brown eyes.

“Give me fifteen minutes. Where should we meet?”

“The Midnight Bar.”

“It’s not midnight.”

“We’re on the high seas. Society’s rules don’t apply on the ocean. Besides, somewhere in the world it is,” House explained as he hitched his way down the corridor.

* * *

  


  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000d593t/)   


  


Cover of the original sheet music for the two-piano version of _Rhapsody in Blue_  


The bar, a provocative cave in stark black and white was open for business yet empty. House decided what the place needed was a streak of blue. He sat down at the dazzling white-lacquered piano—a pale grace note in a sea of black, lit a cigarette, and began playing a piano arrangement of _Rhapsody in Blue_. As he wound down, Wilson showed up. Paying for two glasses of scotch at the bar, Wilson sat them on the piano and casually relaxed against it, listening. Occasionally he sipped from his glass and idly puffed from House’s cigarette burning in the ashtray.

They were having a moment. Exactly what kind, House couldn’t say, but it went down smooth as one hundred year old brandy. He segued into _American in Paris_ to prolong the spell.

Finishing the piece, House asked, “You like Gershwin or just music about cosmopolitan cities?”

“Anything played well.” Wilson raised his glass. “Continue.”

A stream of melodies flowed from House’s fingers. Gershwin hobnobbed with Kern, who rubbed shoulders with Rachmaninov. They all tumbled into bed with Tchaikovsky before House realized they weren’t alone anymore. The cocktail crowd was trickling in.

Wilson seemed to size up the situation at the same time House did. He stepped away from the piano and checked his watch. “I better get back to Richard.”

“What about tomorrow? I can do things to Schubert that he never dreamed of, including finishing him off—his symphony, I mean.”

Wilson paused, absorbing the statement, but simply said, “Of course. What other meaning is there?”

“That’s three.”

“Come again? Wilson crinkled his eyebrows and glanced over his shoulder. “Who are you talking to?”

“You. Making a study of your various and apparently endless, earnestly stunned expressions.”

“I—I…”

“Repeat of number two. You’re disappointing me, Wilson. Maybe you can break your record tomorrow. How about we meet after lunch for a warm up session of poker?”

“I’m playing bridge in the afternoon.”

“Bridge? Are you a man or a lapdog?” House asked sourly.

“I’m doing an old lady a favor.” Wilson shrugged. “Mrs. Aldridge needed a partner. Say, do you play? I didn’t see Ralph Spence at lunch. We were pairing up against him and his wife. He may be in need of your magical pills.”

“I prefer pinochle to bridge, but count me in,” House replied.

On his way to his cabin House stopped by the library and pried two slim volumes off the shelf. He had a late night of cramming ahead of him.

* * *

“Well! I never!” Eulalie Aldridge harrumphed like an elephant as she rose from her chair. With much less grace than a pachyderm, she charged toward the door, halting briefly before making her exit. “Are you coming, Margaret?”

A woman of less decisive views, Margaret broadcast her apologies with saucer-shaped eyes and scurried off.

“Really?” Wilson asked after they left. “Of all the possible topics, you brought up diets?”

“Did I say something wrong?” House tried looking innocent. “Don’t women love getting together to talk movie stars and losing weight? What could be better than me explaining how many pounds they could lose with the Hollywood Diet.”

“When they’re alone with other women, they chatter about grapefruit, yes, but not with men around.” Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. “Eulalie’s concentration was off. She kept fumbling her finesses.”

House pondered briefly how Wilson would know about harems without being a eunuch, then swept the thought aside. “Don’t be a spoilsport, just because you lost,” he said, unsuccessfully controlling his urge to gloat. Throwing the high and mighty Mrs. Aldridge off-balance was easier than transforming into a championship bridge player overnight. “She might have been distracted by other things.”

Wilson became quiet. “Well, she did touch my leg under the table several times. I thought she was signaling a bid, but the way her bare foot glided up my calf…” He shook his head, mystified.

“That wasn’t Aldridge.” House kicked his shoe from under the table and spun around so he could slip it on his foot. He glimpsed Wilson’s face as he slowly tied the lace.

Wilson was blinking and his mouth parted slightly, but he said nothing.

“And that.” House pointed triumphantly. “Is number four.” He levered out of the chair. “Come on. I’m thirsty. Let’s visit our favorite watering hole. I’ll serenade you for as long as you buy me drinks.”

“Wait.” Wilson stopped at the door. “Level with me. Are you kidding or is this a seduction?

House laughed. “Seducing you? Pshaw! The very idea! Should I continue?”


	7. Chapter 7

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000d96ra/)

  


Postcard depicting the first class dining room from the NYK / OSK Lines.

**Part 5**

Becalmed on the Sea of Flirtation, House thought morosely, swallowing the last of his cold coffee. Days had gone by and Wilson had showed no sign of reciprocating House's interest.

“Poker?” Wilson asked, pushing away from the table.

“Nope. Poker is about bluffing, and you have that ‘Two-ladies-flirted-with-me-today-I’m-all-powerful’ look in your eyes.” House threw down his napkin, and followed Wilson out to the promenade deck. Between his less frequent stints in the infirmary and his time spent with Wilson, he all but slept in first class. “Gin?”

“No thanks, ‘Mr. Knock-on-the-first-discard,’” Wilson said dryly, pointing an accusing finger. “Which incidentally, isn’t legal unless you have _valid_ combinations. How about pinochle?”

“Which, incidentally, you never complained about when the winnings went into your pocket. You’re not gonna bring up bridge?”

“No. Never again after the Chandler sisters.” Wilson stopped walking. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t stand so close to any rails. There’s a rumor that the women devised a lottery with you as the prize. The winner gets to throw you overboard.”

In spite of the warning, House leaned against the rail and mocked, “You girls! You gotta stop hanging out at the beauty salon.”

Having nothing to do in paradise should have been… paradise. Except watching women constantly bombard Wilson with flirtatious nonsense irritated House like extra starch in his collars. It wasn’t easy standing quietly by. He would squeeze the handle on his cane until his knuckles turned white, waiting to see if the latest giggling damsel would be successful and snag _his_ prize. So far, Wilson had conducted himself like a perfect gentleman, polite but aloof. Sadly, in spite of House being on his best behavior and dropping broad hints, Wilson acted the same way around him too, cool and pure as a mountain spring.

Whenever House was alone he toyed with the thought of an easier challenge—possessing the opposite of Wilson, a curvaceous female with a fiery personality. However, his yearning to feel Wilson’s chest ( _smooth and hairless or was there a trail leading down to his stomach? Or something in between?_ ) and his body locked in a masculine leg vice never permitted other possibilities to come close to reality. The thought left him weak and insane.

House shoved off the rail and headed toward the stern. “I need to fire a gun.”

“I’m only kidding about the women,” Wilson said, sounding alarmed as he caught up.

“I’m not. I’m going trapshooting.”

“In that case, I’ll join you.”

They were choosing shotguns when a man came bounding up, gasping for breath and waving a telegram. “House, I’ve been looking all over the ship for you.”

House swiped the wire from the man’s hand.

**SPOKE TO MUTUAL FRIEND STOP MEET YOU AT HONOLULU DOCK WITH COUSIN LOUISE STOP**

“Thanks, pally. I owe you one,” House said, coming close to sounding sincere.

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Who’s your friend, House? We haven’t been introduced.”

“Wilson meet pally. Pally, Wilson. Excuse me while I make the world safe from menacing disks of clay.” He nodded in dismissal, and pushed past the stranger to the first station. “Hope you’re hungry, Wilson. Prepare to eat a brace of mud for dinner.”

* * *

By dinnertime, House’s unflagging appetite had lost its edge. Propping his back against his headboard, he massaged his thigh. Trapshooting had proved to be a bad idea. Compensating for the movement of the ship in combination with the kick from the shotgun had taken a toll on his diminished muscles. His leg was on fire from his hip to his toes. He needed one of his pills, but they were in the cabinet on the far side of the room.

There was a knock on the door. “House?”

Wilson’s voice. How had he tracked him down? House had never given him his cabin number. Wilson discovering he bunked in second class didn’t bother him, but he wanted to keep the odds of Donahue and Wilson meeting a long shot.

“Are you in there?”

He chewed on his lip, willing Wilson away. But muffled voices could be heard from the hall and a key rattled in the lock.

“House, are you all right?” Wilson, dressed to the nines in his spanking white dinner jacket, rushed in followed by a uniformed member of the ship’s staff holding a jangling ring of keys. “You missed the first course.”

“Am I that predictable?” House forced a smile as he kneaded his thigh.

Wilson seemed to size up the situation, tipped the man and thanked him while he walked him to the door. When he returned, House noted Wilson’s brow was furrowed in concern. It removed some of the painful bite from his leg.

“I asked the porter to bring a hot water bottle.”

House pointed toward the wall of storage cabinets. “I don’t need it. Get me the pills on the upper left shelf.”

Before handing the vial to House, Wilson shook a tablet out, flaked off a chip with his thumbnail, and tasted it. His eyebrows skyrocketed to his hairline.

“That makes five stunned expressions, and still counting. Too bad silent pictures are dead. Now give me one of those pills,” House snapped impatiently. He put out his hand and waited. Wilson scowled, but dropped it in his palm.

He tossed it in his mouth, swallowing without the assistance of water. He closed his eyes, and waited for the magical effect to take hold. Within minutes his eyelids felt heavy and he was on the brink of sleep when there was a knock on the door—the porter with the hot water bottle. Wilson was walking away from his side. He wasn’t sure if he thought or mumbled, “Don’t go.”

When he awoke, the room was faintly illuminated. Light streamed through a thin opening in the bathroom door. A chair creaked beside him. Wilson’s face was close enough for him to smell sweet hair tonic.

“How are you feeling?”

“Starving.” House squinted at the bedside clock as a lamp clicked to life. He struggled to sit up. It was past midnight.

Wilson waved a dish in front of him. “I ordered sandwiches.”

The plate containing a neatly quartered club sandwich on toast, landed in his lap. He swooped up a wedge and devoured a third of it with one bite.

Wilson returned to his chair, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and lit a cigarette. Other than the hushed draw and exhale of smoke, he was as silent as the Sphinx. On the dresser behind Wilson, lay an empty dish. Next to it was Wilson’s bow tie and carefully folded dinner jacket.

While House continued to reduce the sandwich to a smudge of mayonnaise and runny tomato, he puzzled over what Wilson’s silence meant. Was he angry about the pills or was this his standard bedside manner? For whatever reason, it gave House the heebie-jeebies.

He pounced on the first subject that came into his head to test whether Wilson was giving him the silent treatment. “How did you find my cabin?”

Wilson took his time answering, blowing out a long puff of smoke before crushing his cigarette. “I asked around. Did you know you’re a man of mystery? I tracked down your… good pal, Pally. He was no help. Admitted you seemed to know him better than he remembered you. Do you even know his real name?”

“Bill… or Bob.”

“It’s Biff.” Wilson crossed his arms over his chest. “How _did_ the two of you meet?” he asked, his eyes narrowed into twin slits of skepticism.

“I needed someone to do me a favor.” House shrugged. “There was a group gathered around the bulletin board, I leaned heavily on my cane, looked soulful, and shouted, “Hey is that you, Bill?! Bob?! There’s always someone in a crowd with those names. Biff needs his ears checked.”

“And that favor was…?”

“Send a message to a pa- an acquaintance of mine.” He rubbed his leg. “The communication room is up a long flight of stairs.”

“You could have asked me.”

“At the time, I didn’t know you were on the ship. Who gave you my cabin number?”

“Kimura.”

Stalling while he fit all the pieces together, House stuffed the garnish in his mouth, chewing slowly until he hit upon his best guess. “You’re lying.”

Wilson froze. “What?”

House pushed off the bed, testing his leg. Turning the tables on Wilson deserved to be done while standing. “You’re jealous.”

Wilson rose and squared his shoulders. “Me? Of who?”

“You got jealous as soon as I called Biffy Bob, pally. The same way I did with you at Mischa’s. There was no need to seek him out. Anyone with a half a brain would start with Kimura. He sits at the Captain’s table. Biffsteak boy would be hard to find, lost among the herd.” House took a breath before making his final stab at Wilson’s bluff. “You had me fooled, acting cool and indifferent when you thought there was no one else but you.”

“I-I thought…” Wilson rubbed the back of his neck as if it were a magic lamp that would get him out of the jam he created.

“You thought what, ice princess?” House moved closer, forcing Wilson to look up at him. “I preferred brassieres to double-breasted suits? Didn’t I make it plain enough that I was attracted to you whether you wore either one?”

“See? There you go. Everything is a joke to you.” Wilson accused, his finger a deadly pointer. “When those two baby grands showed up at the _Italian Gardens_ threatening to turn you into Swiss cheese, you couldn’t be bothered to give a straight answer.”

“You want serious? Maybe you’ll understand this.” House placed his hand on the back of Wilson’s his head, pulling him into a kiss. A needy mewl escaped Wilson’s throat as his mouth opened under the onslaught of House’s prying tongue…

* * *

**Slang**  
Heebie-Jeebies = nervous  
Baby grands = mobsters  
[ Jazz Age Slang](http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm)  
[Dirty 30s! - Slang of the 30s](http://www.paper-dragon.com/1939/slang.html)


	8. Chapter 8

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000dyspw/)

  


RMS Queen Mary, Cunard Line

**Part 6**

Wilson hummed as he wiped the last wispy trail of soap from his cheek. He had hoped to gain the upper hand on his stupid grin by the time he had finished shaving, but turned away from the mirror with the smile still stuck on his face.

Last night had been both more and less than he ever expected. After House introduced Biff, Wilson’s thoughts transformed into bubbling acid. He was convinced House was a trickster god whose sole purpose on earth was to tease and bedevil him. Then last night House’s warm, firm lips were upon his, sending shock waves down his spine the way no woman’s kiss ever had.

He touched his mouth. It was rather endearing how House accepted his naiveté with a male partner. Much too soon after their first intimate moment, House pushed away, leaving an arm’s length of space between them. “No more for now. We’ll continue your education in a more private place.”

The sound of the door latch in the sitting room interrupted Wilson’s musings. His hopes rose as he turned the corner. “Hou—?” And crashed when he saw Richard standing in the middle of the room. Producing a short coughing fit to hide his blunder, he cleared his throat and asked guilessly, “ _How_ did you get in?”

“Have you forgotten? This was originally my suite, little brother.”

His shoulders tensed under Richard’s proprietary tone, grating like fingernails raking over a chalkboard. He forced down his irritation and knocked a cigarette from his pack, sinking into a chair. “You’re still looking green, Richard. You can’t be considering swapping rooms again.”

“No. I’m fine with the smaller cabin. The stern is less choppy.” Richard smiled and pushed out his chest as if bathing under the rosy glow of a spotlight. “I dropped by to show you how much better I’m feeling. Those pills worked a miracle. They should be patented.”

“You do that.” Wilson said, giving in without arguing, his mind elsewhere. He didn’t want his brother to suffer, but Richard’s improved health affected his personal life. He stood up and put out his hand. “Thanks for returning the spare key.”

“What’s that?”

Wilson planted his hands on his hips. “I’m not a child. Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?”

His brother frowned. “What if something should happen to you? The family entrusted me with your welfare.”

“So far the only one in need of caring, was you. I’m fine.” Wilson went to a drawer and held out a key. “Here’s yours. Take it and give me mine.”

Richard banished the request with a wave of his hand. “Don’t suck the joy out of this beautiful morning. It’s the first day I felt like eating and I’m famished. Why don’t we discuss our room arrangements over breakfast?”

Wilson folded his jacket over his arm, discreetly checking his watch. He was supposed to meet House in five minutes, but he wouldn’t breathe easy until he had the extra key in his possession. House would have to wait.

* * *

After a full English breakfast in the dining room, Wilson finally broke free of his brother and went directly to the veranda located on the ship's fantail. Breakfast service had ended, but he was able to catch the waiter’s eye and motion for a cup of coffee.

House was slouched in a chair angled away from a table, his profile framed against the crisp white and blue of the ship’s railing and the Pacific. As Wilson pulled out a chair, House tossed a book onto a clean patch of tablecloth and announced triumphantly, “It’s never the butler.”

“Is that good or bad news?” Wilson asked, but he could tell House wasn’t listening. He had returned to his stoop-shouldered posture, staring morosely at his hands folded on his lap.

Wilson swallowed the lump lodged in his throat. Richard still had his key, but the expression on House’s face suggested he was worrying about it for nothing. That House had second thoughts. Wilson sipped his coffee and waited, resolving to wear his poker face no matter what House had to say. Not much of a choice, but he preferred hearing, _Let’s pretend last night never happened,_ over _Last night was a mistake._

“What happened last night…” House’s forehead creased with wrinkles. His voice petered out as if he had lost his train of thought. “You follow the Olympics?”

“Last one was held in Los Angeles. Why?”

“Strangers get together. There’s a torch ceremony and a series of athletic challenges. At the end, the competitors pat each other on the back, go home to their parents, or the wife and kids, and the screaming neighbor-couple next door. By the end of the week, nothing’s changed.” House lowered his voice. “I like you, but you need to know what we do on the ship is temporary. No attachments. When we dock in San Francisco we go our separate ways.”

“Noted,” Wilson agreed, silently exhaling. The upfront, no-nonsense disclaimer rattled him, but who was he to complain when he could offer no more? Commitment was a thing of the past. The ship was his reality. “When do the games begin?”

* * *

“What are you doing?” Wilson asked, shifting uneasily while House crouched on one knee, poking a slender rod into a keyhole and jiggling it.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“Getting into trouble and dragging me along as your innocent accomplice.”

“You read too many detective novels. This is hardly a crime. What’s the worst that could happen? Keelhauling was outlawed in the last century.” House stood up and rested his hand on the knob. “On the other hand, walking the plank is still practiced in some countries.”

“Seriously?”

House opened the door, pulling Wilson inside. He was instantly plunged into darkness. All he could feel was House’s breath tickling his cheek. He anticipated a kiss, but House said, “Don’t move.”

House’s scent and body heat were replaced by the sound of a cane and footsteps receding into the distance. By the echo, Wilson estimated the room was immense and sparsely furnished.

The click of light switches heralded an artificial dawn that made him wince and close his eyes. When he dared to open them again, the wall sconces were dimmed to a pleasant twilight. He was in Neptune’s grotto built of ivory and aqua tile. “The indoor swimming pool?”

House had returned to his side. “What better place for privacy?”

Wilson waved his arm. “Anywhere but here?”

“This place gets less attention than Eulalie’s pussy. The pool was built for cold weather when the one topside becomes unusable, but ninety percent of the time the weather is warm. Officially, it’s a red ‘X’ on the blueprints, indicating where the company wants to build an ice rink. A maintenance guy comes once a month then locks it up.” House nuzzled Wilson’s neck. “We have it all to ourselves.”

Wilson leaned into the caress and received a smart slap on his butt.

“Remember the Olympics? Let the games begin!” House smirked. “Strip and get in. I’ll be right back. The pool lights need adjusting.”

Feeling awkward, Wilson retreated to a half-wall of glass brick and carefully took off his clothes, folding and laying each piece into a neat pile. Gripping the waistband of his boxers with his thumbs, he questioned how far House meant him to undress. He let the elastic snap back in place and stood about aimlessly waiting for House to return. Suddenly, the murky water turned into liquid sky as the pool lights blinked on. “House?” he called out, but all he got was an echo.

No point in loitering any longer, he went to the metal steps. Bracing for the inevitable icy chill he climbed down, but his leg was enveloped in tropical warmth. House had done his homework.

Shoving off the side, his arms cut through water like scissors into silk. He aimed for the polished silver slide at the other end. The womb-like atmosphere relaxed him as his fear of getting caught melted into the bobbing waves. When he finished the first lap, he began another.

Too quickly, fatigue overtook him. Back in college, ten laps were nothing. Now, four turned his arms and legs into lead, and the fifth was taking forever to complete.

Powerful, incredible arms embraced him and halted his journey. Startled, a drop of water entered his windpipe, and caught in his throat, robbing him of speech and dignity. House stood patiently by, soberly examining him.

“Steady, my little mermaid.” The flat of House’s hand rested on his chest, a comforting gesture until Wilson realized it was over his heart. The hand migrated to the pulse under his jaw. He tried wresting away, but House wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him in an unyielding grip.

Standing semi-naked in the pool left little in Wilson’s arsenal to deflect House. He licked his lips and craned his neck to plant a kiss, but House ducked his advance.

“Your heart is racing after a few short laps.”

“Too much poker and too little exercise will do that,” he replied, but House still held him tight until his breathing returned to normal.

“When was your last physical?”

About to respond that it was none of his business, Wilson’s attention was arrested by the sight of House’s naked, well-muscled body, shimmering through the blue ripples; the scarred thigh the only blemish. He answered, “Most likely more recently than yours. How did a bullet mess up your leg that badly?” He was playing dirty, but desperation called for a distraction.

House scowled and his hand moved protectively over the scar. “Bullets and hospitals don’t mix. Had a buddy patch me up the best he could.”

Wilson felt like scum. “It doesn’t matter,” he said hastily. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” With a heavy sigh he waited for a belittling insult or worse—House turning his back on him and leaving.

“It’s a fair question.” House said quietly, shrugging his shoulders as if casting off a demon known only to him, then smiled slyly. “But you’re not playing fair.” He moved toward Wilson until they were inches apart. “Quid pro disrobing.” Wilson’s boxers flew off his hips.

Stunned, he watched them float lazily down to his feet.

“Fuck, how do you do it?” House thumbed Wilson’s lips as if Wilson were a science exhibit. “The look on your face counts as eight, nine, and ten.” Then pressed his mouth against Wilson’s, going deep.

Wilson gave in to the kiss and House rubbing against him, his hand roaming down his chest, sliding down to his stomach. Wilson’s skin quivered under the sure touch. The hand went lower, and Wilson gasped. He closed his eyes and arched his back.

His eyelids snapped open when House stopped abruptly and looked him square in the eye. “You’re a Yid?”

Wilson scrubbed his cheek. _Please don’t let this turn into an ‘us’ and ‘them’ debate in the middle of a pool._ “My mother is Jewish, but my father—”

“Go mom!” House beamed a decidedly wicked grin and smacked his lips. “I love kosher meat.” He clasped a hand on Wilson’s back, and one on his shoulder, steering him backwards in a limped foxtrot while singing, _“We're all alone, no chaperone… can get our number; the world's in slumber—let's misbehave.”_

Stifling a giggle, Wilson wondered what would come next. He never knew with House. When the rungs of the ladder poked the back of his calves, House forcibly sat him down. To Wilson’s embarrassment, his swollen member broke the surface of the water. House wedged between Wilson’s legs.

“Stay very still and be don’t say a word,” House murmured, and bent his head.

At the first touch of House’s dexterous tongue and pliant mouth, Wilson was no longer a rational being. He fought his need to buck by gripping the side rails so hard he was sure they were dented permanently. He bit his lip in an effort not to moan, but knew he had failed when House cupped his hand over his mouth. And when the dam broke, House accepted all of him. After, when his body floated unmoored, House was his life raft, holding him close.

When he could speak, Wilson said, “I never—“

“I know,” House answered, his blue eyes alight. “I’m your sensei.” House stretched out his arms and backed away. Through the small staccato waves, Wilson could make out an impressive erection. “Demonstrate everything you learned.”

  


* * *

  


Lyrics from [_Let's Misbehave_](http://www.lyricstime.com/cole-porter-let-s-misbehave-lyrics.html) 1927, by Cole Porter.


	9. Chapter 9

  


[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000d8ks5/)

  


  


Postcard from the NYK / OSK Lines: Public Room / Lounge

  


_Pig Latin Translation at Bottom of Page._  


**Part 7:**

With only the storage room’s flickering light bulb to help him restore his clothes to pre-coital order, Wilson hastily tucked in his shirttail and zipped his fly. With one last pass over his ruffled hair to smooth it in place, he joined House at the door. Feigning interest in House’s reconnaissance, he positioned himself so his hips pressed firmly into House’s backside, and spoke into his ear, “Isway ethay oastcay earclay?”

House snicked the door shut, muting the whine of the engines. His eyes glittered under the erratic lighting. “I told you. The shift change won’t happen until after lunch. No one's walked by, and no one will for the next hour.” House arched an eyebrow in invitation as he cupped Wilson’s crotch.

“House.” Wilson reluctantly pushed the hand away and waved at the stacks of coiled hoses surrounding them. “What happens if there's a fire?” He sighed. “Anyway, one more time and I won’t be able to stand on my feet. Which reminds me…” He raised his handcuffed wrist, the metal jangling softly against his sleeve. “I’m not taking a step outside with these on.”

“Use your head. If something goes wrong with the ship, we’ll be the last ones they’ll worry about.” House smiled. “They do look good on you, but I need them back. They turn into mice after midnight.” He lunged forward, bestowing a lusty kiss that left Wilson breathless.

Expecting to be free of the cuff when they separated, Wilson discovered he was now manacled to House.

“In less than a week, you transformed from a sissy into a man’s man, Wilson. Now you need to accept the danger that goes with it,” House explained, backing away and cracking the door open to check the catwalk. “Let’s amscray.” He tugged on the metal umbilical cord, giving Wilson no choice but to follow.

Walking briskly, they headed toward the service elevator, slowing at corners, straining to hear footsteps over the symphony of machinery. Not until they were a few feet away from the sliding doors, did House discreetly release the cuff.

Wilson dipped his head in silent thanks as the elevator opened, revealing an empty car. With House by his side, he was about to hurry in, but House grabbed his arm. “Full up. Take the stairs.”

“What?”

“We’re not crew. Eyebrows will raise to full mast if we’re found in an ‘Employee only’ area.”

He knew House was right, but Wilson folded his arms in front of his chest and smirked. “So much for the men who laugh in the face of danger.”

As the doors closed, Wilson thought he heard House mumble, “The heart is a muscle. You need the exercise.”

Puzzling whether House was displaying concern or giving pragmatic advice, Wilson loosened his tie and clutched the banister as he began his slow climb.

* * *

When Wilson reached his stateroom, the door swung open without him using his key. He had a visitor. Grateful that he had stopped for a smoke to catch his breath, he smiled coolly at Richard who was entrenched in one of the barrel chairs, an open book in his lap and a martini glass at his elbow. By the collection of butts in the ashtray, he estimated his brother had been there for a long time. Wilson looked for any sign of luggage—his or his brother’s, but the carpet showed no telltale imprints.

“Why are you here, Richard? Run out of liquor?”

“Have a seat, James,” Richard said, in full big brother mode. “You look flushed. Have you been… overexerting yourself?”

“No.” Stalling, Wilson went to the liquor cabinet, calculating where the conversation was likely headed. Goosebumps prickled the back of his neck. Normally Richard’s voice dripped with concern, but this time he detected a scrap of disgust. He poured two fingers of scotch into a glass before sinking into a chair. “I was walking laps around the deck, but it’s hot and humid. You're not here for a weather report. What’s this about?”

Richard concentrated on his cigarette, inhaling deeply then elaborately flicking the ash from the tip. “People are beginning to talk.”

Wilson’s shoulders tensed, but he remained outwardly calm. “Talking about what?”

“Not what, who. You’ve been spending a lot of time with this House fella. They say the two of you are inseparable.”

“What you’re implying, it’s ridiculous.” Wilson replied, trying to sound convincing. In an effort to sway Richard, he employed the snickered euphemisms overheard as a child at the dinner table. “House and I are doctors, we don’t perm hair or design dresses.”

When Richard appeared to squirm uneasily, Wilson pressed his point. “Who are ‘they’, and why are you listening to gossip? Granted, House can be abrasive and doesn’t make friends easily, but he’s smart and witty and good company. You’re welcome to join us whenever you like,” he said, bluffing, and shook his head. “Since when do you listen to the idle chatter of nobodies?”

“Those nobodies know bodies that know our family, James. I don’t want mother and father hearing anything about your reputation that might leave a black mark on the family.”

“An ugly stain.” Wilson barked out a bitter laugh. “Is that to be my legacy?” Realizing instantly that self-pity wasn’t going to get him out of this jam, he tried persuading Richard from a different angle. “Do you honestly believe I’m not tempted by the beautiful women on this ship? It’s not fair to lead them on when I can’t promise them anything. Will our parents take comfort in knowing not only did I jilt Ernie, but I turned into a heartless cad?” To his relief, Richard blinked several times as if coming out of a trance.

“You’re reading too much into my motivation for spending time with House. As I never put my medical degree to good use, I was palling around with him, hoping he could slip in a good word with the ship’s doctor. I’d like to practice medicine once in my life,” he said, coloring the last with a wistfulness that wasn’t altogether false. He waited for Richard’s reaction.

“Shit.” Richard rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m a lousy brother for doubting you. How could I forget you chased anything in a skirt since high school.” He smiled. “You were almost as bad as I was.” Richard tamped out his smoldering cigarette. “Can you forgive me?”

“A misunderstanding.” Wilson answered, nearly sighing with relief. “But Richard… keep your yap shut about my health. The subject is off limits.”

“Mum’s the word, Jimmy. I’ll drop a hint in the right ear or two that you’re nursing a broken heart—the lovelorn kind, and by this time tomorrow the gossip will be forgotten. No one need be the wiser.” He unfurled from the chair, stretching his back.

“Now that you’re feeling better, shouldn’t you make up lost time for the two of us?” Wilson asked as he walked his brother to the door. “The Chandler twins asked about you.”

“Did they?” Richard smiled speculatively.

No they hadn’t, but the redheads were wild about anything on two legs, except House, and Wilson wanted Richard to find something better to do with his spare time than spy on him. He returned Richard’s smile in spades. “Absolutely.”

* * *

Wilson paced outside the Midnight Lounge, listening to House coax music from that cake of alabaster soap called a piano. He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose, then rested his hip against the rail, watching the ruby sunset liquefy into the sea.

He had put off meeting with House for a night and a day. Had Richard kept his promise and countered the rumors, making them evaporate like sun shining on rain puddles?

A cigarette provided a good excuse to linger outside and bolster his ebbing courage. By the time he flicked it overboard he acknowledged his cowardice. He’d wait until tomorrow. Surely forty-eight hours were better than twenty-four.

About to return to his cabin, he heard House switch from a sprightly tune to a slow, irresistible melody. Like a sleepwalker, Wilson couldn’t stop himself from going inside.

As he wove around the tables to his usual seat near the piano, House looked up and winked. He shifted suddenly into, “You’re the Top.”

Of all the songs…

When he was within earshot, Wilson spoke through a clenched smile, “Are you crazy? Stop playing.”

“Loosen the cinch on your girdle, Wilson. The blood isn’t reaching your head. No one would ever take you for a top,” House replied with a smug smile.

“What about that slow song you were playing when I walked in? Play that instead.”

“East of the Sun? I gotta warn you, it’s as lethal as Cupid’s arrow. Unless you’re ready to announce our engagement, I need to lay some groundwork. First off, quit leaning on the grand, and do something useful.” House nodded in the direction of the bar. “Order us drinks and stay there. I’ll join you after the next set.”

Wilson did as he was told and waited expectantly to see what trick House had up his sleeve.

Halting in the middle of Cole Porter’s ditty, House spoke to the crush, “A little birdie told me one of you adorable couples was celebrating an anniversary. Come clean, who is it?” A pair of hands fluttered near the piano as well as in a back corner.

“Two couples. Isn’t that peachy?” House beamed. “I have just the song for you lovebirds. It’s fresh from the States and it’s called, _East of the Sun and West of the Moon_.” Without further fanfare he launched into the ballad.

Immediately, the crowd hushed under its hypnotic spell. Wilson rubbed his forehead, relieved he was draped in shadow. House was right. No one would believe they weren’t lovers if he stood anywhere near the piano.

The ballad was undeniably beautiful. The lyrics, describing a heavenly dream house for two were corny, bordering on nonsensical. Welded together by House’s voice and nimble fingers, they pierced Wilson’s emotional armor. House might tease about Wilson’s stunned looks, but Wilson had his own personal dossier on House. It overflowed with inflections and facial expressions ranging from wide-eyed comical to shuttered with concern. A separate index meticulously categorized how House’s fingers caressed and aroused the most intimate parts of his body.

House had become Wilson’s world. The ship was Wilson’s dream house. When had he become so vulnerable?

He glanced at House, enjoying his hold over the audience. Wilson finished the scotch in his glass and motioned the bartender to bring another. A fresh cigarette steadied his nerves.

By the time House hitched onto the barstool and intentionally bumped shoulders, Wilson had his casual smile locked in place. “Nice enough song. What’s the name, again?”

* * *

  
**Slang and Pig Latin**  
Isway ethay oastcay earclay? = is the coast clear?  
Amscray = scram (get moving)  
Yap = mouth

 _East of the Sun and West of the Moon_ , written by Brooks Bowman.  


 _You’re the Top_ , written by Cole Porter.  



	10. Chapter 10

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000dzh7f/)

  


November 1933 Greta Garbo on the cover of _Movie Classic_  


**Part 8**

Eye-deep in Mae West’s cleavage, House ignored the sound of Wilson shuffling into his private retreat. As Wilson’s assorted sighs and huffs became too annoying to disregard, he placed the magazine down and watched him swirl his hand through the lollipop jar like a hungry bear after honey.

What Wilson did for lab coats, Mae West did for negligees. House’s fingers itched to wrestle the coat off the bony shoulders, followed by the tie, the shirt…

“House, don’t you have any patients? What are you doing in Kimura’s office?”

“An emergency in steerage. A woman went into labor. I’m in charge until he gets back.” He concealed his face behind the cover of Garbo’s portrait. “Be gone. I vant to be alone.”

Unimpressed with his banishment, Wilson put the container of candy on the file cabinet and plunked down on the corner of the desk. “What happened to the red suckers from this morning? There are only green and yellow.”

“Beats me.” House stuck his head into the slick pages until his nose nearly touched the print. “Listen to this. ‘Miss West confided, _Men are conveniences to me, nothing more. If they can help me in any way, socially or financially, I can lie nice to 'em._ ’” House cupped his chin in his hand and released an exaggerated sigh. “That’s my kinda dame!”

“Ginger Rogers is more my type, with those long gams.” Wilson pulled the magazine from under House’s elbow and flipped through it. He dropped it onto a stack of nearby gossip magazines, and flicked an imaginary piece of dust off his white lapel. “I haven’t thanked you for backing up the story I told Richard.”

“No need. Helping you helped me, not to mention Kimura. I have less work and get to see you more.” For the hundredth time he wanted to ask Wilson why he had never practiced medicine since graduating medical school, and for the hundredth time he bit his tongue. If he brought up the subject, Wilson would have first dibs on retaliating with a question of his own. Like why was House returning to the States?

“If you hate to work, why do you hang out here?”

Not about to explain his arrangement with Donahue, House slapped his palm on top of the pile of magazines. “The Japanese are way ahead of the Americans in modern medicine. Nothing here is more than eighteen months old.”

Steering the conversation onto safer subjects, House grabbed a blank sheet of paper and cleared his throat. “Where should I take you on our date tonight?” He pretended to read from a list. “Engine room, laundry room, lifeboat, officer’s lavatory, pool, women’s powder room. The beds are empty in the infirmary.”

“Not if there are complication with the baby’s birth,” Wilson answered.

“Always a party pooper. How about the forward funnel? I hear there’s an upper platform inside that’s built for two.”

Wilson perked up, but shook his head. “What about the climb? Are you up for it?”

House shrugged off the question. “Could I interest you in a deluxe suite?”

“Impossible,” Wilson stated flatly. “They’re all occupied.”

House held up a key with a brass tag attached. “But I know the owner of _a no juu hachi senshitsu._ If I asked him sweetly, I bet he’d give it to me.”

“You, charming? There’s no chance in hell.” Wilson swiped the key out of his hand and inspected it. “Hey, this is my cabin.” His face shone with approval. “It’s Richard’s.” He eyed House suspiciously. “How did you get it?”

“Richard should know better than drink wine sent to his room by a secret admirer.”

“He was complaining of a violent headache this morning… “ Wilson pressed his palms to his eyes. “You drugged him and broke into his room.”

“You betcha! You can thank me tonight.” House flopped against the back of his chair. “Can’t wait to get you in a real bed.” Immediately, he regretted his outburst of glee.

“I thought you dragged me from stem to stern because you liked our Olympics. What was wrong with your cabin all this time?”

House deftly supplied a half-truth. “The walls in second class are paper thin and my crotchety neighbor, Donahue, lives to report so much as a sneeze from any of his neighbors. No one wants to tangle with him. He’s a mean bastard and the size of a sumo wrestler but taller.”

Wilson’s mouth formed an ‘O’.

“So we’re on for tonight? Your place?”

“Sure,” Wilson answered. House could tell the gears behind the dark eyes were churning, making plans for their evening. “After dinner, we’ll go down to steerage to watch Kabuki. I’ll sneak out at 10:30. You meet me at my stateroom by 11:00.”

The sudden shriek of a child startled Wilson off his perch. “Stop playing games and gimme the lollipops. I have a toddler on the verge of a tantrum if I don’t deliver on my promise.”

House grabbed the issue with Joan Crawford on the cover and flipped it open. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Run along. You’re interrupting my finishing school education.” He pointed to a heading. “Says here Joan’s gonna share her secrets on ‘Hollywood’s rules on making friends.’”

“Well, in that case… “ Wilson leaned forward and nibbled on House’s ear, whispering, “I better leave you to your studies.”

Alone, House stretched his legs onto the desk and dug into his pocket for a cherry sucker but came up with lint. Damn Wilson for his straight face and light fingers. House couldn’t stop smiling.

* * *

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000de14p/)

  


Postcard from the NYK / OSK Lines. Deluxe Cabin

House didn’t understand why a rendezvous in Wilson’s stateroom added fresh eroticism to their relationship, but it did. It was his main motivation for stealing the key—that and the luxury of sprawling on a full size bed after expending his last ounce of energy.

One knock on the door with his cane, and Wilson was on him like a grumpy old man shooing him from his precious lawn. Except instead of running him off, Wilson tugged him inside. When the door shut, he quickly let go of the lapels as if they burned his hands.

Casually dressed with his shirt collar undone, sleeves rolled up, and hands shoved into his pockets, Wilson backed away, acting standoffish like when they first met. House inwardly sighed. Sometimes Wilson got that way when he was feeling uncomfortable about something. Resorting to flirtation from the courtship period usually snapped him out of it, but it was late, and House really wanted to keep things simple and go at each other until their brains slid out their ears.

Dropping an unsubtle hint, he stripped off his tie, jacket, and shirt as he walked around the room. It was luxurious. Done in colors of the sea, but a little cramped because of the overstuffed furniture. He pushed back the edge of the curtain to view a private balcony. “Nice,” he said, and meant it. He kicked off his shoes and prepared to undo his pants, heading for the doorway that promised a bedroom beyond it. Wilson trailed behind.

House searched the dimly lit room. A cart in the corner held a silver ice bucket with champagne. A frosty bowl dripped with condensation. It contained a black jammy mound—caviar. He was about to reassess who was doing the seducing tonight when he felt Wilson’s hot breath upon his neck. A naked chest molded to his back. Sharp hipbones and a slightly softer yet more insistent bone pushed against his ass. He turned and cupped the back of Wilson’s neck, about to devour Wilson’s mouth, when he saw the bed. Beds. Twins. He applied the tip of his cane to the leg of a footboard to test if it would budge.

“Don’t bother.” Wilson sighed. “They’re bolted.”

“Well, if nothing can be done…” House leapt into the bed and spread-eagled his arms. “I’ll take a nap.”

“Don’t you dare. Any size mattress beats a lifeboat or a closet.” Wilson’s eyes glittered mischievously as he sat beside him. “You must taste the Beluga while it’s cold.”

House opened wide, expecting a caviar-laden cracker, but the salty treat was delivered on Wilson’s fingers. He held onto the wrist until he licked every fish egg from the skin.

A glass of champagne was pressed into his hand. As he drank, Wilson straddled him and undid his pants, flinging them on the floor.

“Now this… “ His voice hitched as Wilson sampled the firmness of his nipple. “Is room service.”

Attempting to blot any evidence of a smug smile, he lay very still. Wilson was a precocious pupil and did him proud. At times, showing a dogged resolve to turn… _(that thing you do with your palm on my abdomen… continue… continue lowwwwerrr…)_ House into a blithering, drooling idiot.

When fingers fondled his balls… “Oh god yes,” he affirmed. Wilson let go _(fucking tease)_ and began to hum in the tone he used when poring over a patient’s charts, rubbing his stiff erection against House’s.

The steady man-on-man motion had him engorged to the brink of coming when Wilson changed directions like a weather vane caught in a storm. House groaned his disappointment as he was shoved onto his side. A cushion of cool lotion was fastidiously applied to the most sunless region of his anatomy. With Wilson behind him, House had the freedom to smile unnoticed. “I forgive you for being a cocktea—“

Words deserted him at Wilson’s first thrust.

House clawed a pillow as Wilson repeatedly struck his sweet spot, winding him tauter than a guitar string. He ached for release, but didn’t give in. He wanted to ascend to the top of the mountain with Wilson, climbing until they could go no further.

For a moment he hovered in the air, then he heard a stunted, guttural sound and felt a liquid rush of heat. Nearly in unison he bucked, tumbling off the cliff into oblivion with Wilson by his side.

Returning to consciousness, House shut his mouth, wiping slippery drool away with his thumb. He sensed Wilson cradling him in his arms. Managing a token grunt to explain his satiated state, he felt a kiss on his shoulder before sinking into peaceful sleep.

* * *

When he awoke it was still dark. He was alone. He raised his head from the pillow. Wilson wasn’t in the other bed either. He breathed in the toasty aroma of a burning cigarette. Cold, he pulled the blanket around him and limped to the doorway. Tinny music carried from the outer room.

Wilson sat on the couch, staring at some papers. A cigarette parked between his lips. The only illumination came from the glowing orange tip and the moonlight streaming through the open drapes. Wilson’s profile was outlined in silver, but it turned dark and unreadable as the new moon when he looked in House’s direction. The scraps of paper rustled as they were hidden suddenly from view.

“Did the music wake you?”

House shook his head and joined Wilson. “Where did you get a recording of _East of the Sun_?”

“It became an overnight sensation after you introduced it. The ship's pianist cut a recording to sell as a souvenir. The gift shop keeps running out of stock.”

“Enterprising fella, although he could work on his finger articulation.” House plucked the cigarette from Wilson’s hand and inhaled. “Thought you weren’t impressed with the tune.”

“It grew on me.”

House balanced the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. Brushing his lips over Wilson’s cheek, he pushed him against the cushions. “About your performance… “ He locked onto Wilson’s mouth and kissed passionately until he had Wilson’s full attention, and made a grab for the contents in Wilson’s pocket.

“Hey!”

“What have we here?” House stood up and turned on a light. There was a scalloped-edged photograph of the Midnight Lounge and House at the piano. He waved it in the air. “The ship’s photographer?”

Wilson nodded.

“And this?” House studied the pamphlet featuring hula dancers in front of a swanky pink hotel. He was getting a bad feeling and considered not pursuing the subject, but with the evidence sitting in his hand, it was impossible to ignore. “The Royal Hawaiian Hotel?”

In the lamplight, Wilson’s cheeks were tinted the same color as the structure. “It was going to be a surprise.”

“You succeeded. I’m stunned.” Shutting off the lamp he returned to the couch.

“Had the whole day planned. A hired car would give us a tour of Honolulu and drive us to the other side of the island. After, we’d spend the balance of the day at the hotel.” Wilson raised his eyebrows. “Apparently, it’s the only place in the Pacific with double beds.”

House picked up the cigarette and puffed. He had miscalculated. Two days away from Hawaii, his arrangements were already in place for his getaway, and Wilson played no part in them. He needed time to think of an explanation for his upcoming disappearance.

“House? Is something wrong? I can cancel.”

He groped Wilson’s crotch, eliciting a gasp. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you knitted those in your home economics class and attached them to your body with ladylike stitches.” He flipped the papers onto Wilson’s lap. “The champagne, music, fancy hotel... when did you become a romantic? Don’t get a crush on me, Wilson,” he warned. “I’m bad news. When we get to Hawaii—“ He could not go on. Maybe in the light of day he would be able to finish the sentence.

He went back to bed.

His mattress sunk under the additional weight of Wilson’s body. The cigarette disappeared from his fingers and returned to the original owner.

“It’s too late, you know.” Wilson blew a smoke ring that slowly spun into a filmy cloud. “About getting a crush on you. It happened long before the voyage.”

He passed the cigarette back to House. “I wouldn’t call it love at first sight, but one evening I saw you at the _Italian Gardens_ , and I couldn’t stop watching you. My friends would talk about the _21 Club_ , and I’d lie through my teeth telling them that the _Gardens_ had better booze. When I saw you at Mischa’s…”

Engrossed in Wilson’s confession, House snapped, “You didn’t see me, I saw you. You acted like we never met.”

“Acted. Did I ever mention I was in the college drama club?” Wilson said calmly, taking back the cigarette. It was down to a nub. He inhaled before putting it out. “I recognized you playing the piano while I was inside the card room. There was no reason to believe you remembered me. And if you did…”

The bed trembled. House imagined Wilson shrugging.

“What were the chances my feelings would be returned?” Wilson’s fingertip traced House’s jaw. “How about we forget about Waikiki and everything that happened here tonight except the sex? I got carried away and overstepped the rules.”

“Wilson...”

“Think about it.” The bed swayed as Wilson transferred to the neighboring twin.

Long after Wilson’s breathing had deepened into rhythmic snoring, House stared at the ceiling. When the faint gray light of day sketched a fuzzy outline of the walls and a topographic map of his crumpled clothes on the floor, he rolled out of bed.

* * *

**Slang**  
Dame = a woman  
Gams = legs  
[ Jazz Age Slang](http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm)  
[Dirty 30s! - Slang of the 30s](http://www.paper-dragon.com/1939/slang.html)

 **References**  
Hall, G. (1933, August). Mae West's Advice to Young Girls in Love. _Movie Classics_.

Many thanks to the [](http://little-details.livejournal.com/profile)[**little_details**](http://little-details.livejournal.com/) community for their kind help in [translating "cabin 18A"](http://little-details.livejournal.com/3134950.html) into Japanese ( _a no juu hachi senshitsu_ ).


	11. Chapter 11

  


[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000day7q/)

  


**Part 9**

House finished his third cup of joe without feeling much of a pick-me-up. He had slept very little in the past two days.

During an unfortunate lurch of the ship, the waiter missed the cup on the fourth refill. Scalding coffee snaked across his hand. It brought him fully and uncomfortably awake. After the flustered staff member fetched a pitcher of ice water for the injury he was left in peace.

Thanks to the late breakfast hour and thunderstorm, the public rooms were deserted. Biblical waves lashed the ship. It rocked and dipped like a boardwalk amusement ride.

And here he sat, a self-centered, self-pitying jerk, missing Wilson. Ever since he had crept stealthily away from the suite in the pre-dawn light, House had scrupulously avoided Wilson. He supposed Wilson was doing the same with him.

The sand was almost gone from the hourglass. Tomorrow morning the ship docked in Honolulu. Soon there would be no turning back from his escape plan. He mulled over coming clean about his dilemma, but that meant sharing his innermost fears, which meant Wilson was special. And if he were honest with himself, Wilson was.

House’s heart had double-crossed him. When Wilson’s cool exterior proved to be eggshell thin and had admitted an interest in House that spanned years, he had felt angry. The ground rules were clear from the outset; Wilson had cheated. But it didn’t take House long to point the finger of blame at himself.

His memory of Wilson the pup, hanging out at the _Gardens_ , was as vivid as the deco pattern on his porcelain cup.

The speakeasy was squat in the center of Morello’s territory. House should have stayed away, but kept coming back. He might have taken a bluff too far on a bad hand in order to show off to his one and only fan.

He wasn’t about to deny the thrill of seeing Wilson four years later, halfway around the world in Mischa’s. And really, was there anybody he would bother to spend time with after discovering Wilson was on the ship?

And that damned love song. With virtually every Tin Pan Alley melody stuffed in his head, why had he chosen that one? When Wilson asked House to play it, he could have pawned something in its place.

He sipped the bitter coffee and accepted the taste of the bitter truth. He wanted Wilson as much or more than Wilson wanted him. Nonetheless, tomorrow he would be back on the lam and never see Wilson again. The timing of their estrangement was perfect and unbearable.

* * *

House pushed away from the wall as the back door of the infirmary opened. Wilson dropped his black bag on a spare desk.

House greeted him, “You look beat.”

Wilson stared for a moment as if House were an unwelcome visitor from outer space. There were dark circles under his eyes.

“So do you,” Wilson answered, restocking the leather bag with items from a glass-fronted cabinet. “Must be from the long hours you put in helping the understaffed medical team.”

“I know what you’re doing and it won’t work.” House waved his hand. “Don’t trot out your half-Jewish guilt.”

Wilson stepped closer, his eyebrows knitted together. “Is that a burn?” His eyes roved over House’s hand and spattered shirt. “Hot coffee?”

“Can’t fool you, Sherlock.” About to say he was fine, House thought better of it. Unlike himself, Wilson suckled on guilt. He made a partial fist and grimaced.

“Let’s have a look.” Wilson reached for the bag and pulled up a chair. He inspected the red, swollen skin on the hand, turning it gently in his.

House sat quietly as Wilson administered salve and prepared a bandage.

“I shouldn’t have left the other night without explaining…”

“Nothing to explain.”

“Anyone carrying a torch as long as you have, deserves to hear why.”

Wilson scoffed, “Don’t let my romantic notions go to your head.” He smoothed the gauze and applied tape. When he finished he sat back and folded his arms in front of his chest. “We’re done.”

“No, we’re not,” House said, not sure whether he should jeopardize his freedom with his latest crackpot scheme, but unable to stop himself. “Did you cancel your reservations?”

“No. There wasn’t a deposit. Why are you asking?”

“Don’t want to miss my chance to spend an afternoon in a full size bed… with you.”

“You weren’t exactly jumping for joy when I brought up the idea.”

House massaged his thigh. “When do I ever jump? Look, I have to attend to some business when we land in Oahu. I can meet you at the hotel. What time is check-in?”

For the first time during their talk, Wilson’s eyes flickered with interest. “Two o’clock.”

“I’ll meet you there. Don’t keep me waiting.”

* * *

_6:30 am_

The cage door swung on its well-oiled hinges. “Don’t just stand there, House. Get in the cell.”

“Dirty gray does nothing for my complexion. I’m a Pond’s girl.”

“Rules are rules. Don’t give me none of your lip when you should be thanking me for getting you the deluxe suite. This here’s the holding pen for drunken crew members. Not the regular brig.”

“Rules are meant to be broken, Donahue.”

“I’m here to ensure they’re not. You and I are stuck here until the ship leaves port late tonight and is safely back in international waters.”

“Okay.” House stepped inside. “I don’t want to be the reason you didn’t earn your Eagle Scout badge.” The door clicked softly behind him. House was sure it wasn’t for his benefit. Donahue’s bloodshot eyes spelled hangover.

He went to the cot. “You’re not going into Honolulu to buy a grass skirt for the little lady back home?” House asked, intent on keeping his voice casual.

Donahue peered at him through the bars and pointed to a desk wedged in a corner. “I’m not leaving your side, buddy-boy.

Covering his eyes with his arm to fend off the glare from the naked light bulb overhead, House went to sleep.

_8:05 am_

“So, what are you doing to occupy your free time, Donahue?” House nudged a heavy upturned bucket over to the bars. “Taking swimming lessons?”

“God almighty, must you make such a racket?” Donahue held his head as if it was about to explode.

With his back to the wall, House slid down to the floor and pulled a pack of playing cards from his pocket, dealing seven onto his new table. “Any regulations about playing solitaire?”

“Do it quietly.”

_9:30 am_

Wiping a bit of clinging egg from his mouth, House dropped his napkin into his plate. “Got more coffee?”

Donahue lumbered over with the pot. He poured the steaming liquid through the bars into the upraised cup.

House slurped from his cup and smacked his lips. He traded his cup for the deck and shuffled. “Feeling better? Care to join me in a hand of gin rummy?”

“Yeah, what the hell.” Donahue rolled his chair over to where House sat on the floor.

_11:40 am_

House leaned back against the wall and smiled companionably. “I pegged you all wrong, Donahue. You’re not a bad guy.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re beating my pants off at gin. I’m down a $1.29,” Donahue complained, his mouth full of sandwich.

When Donahue lifted his coffee cup, House produced a hip flask. “Here, let me sweeten it up for you.” He held the container to his lips first, then passed it between the bars.

“I shouldn’t. I’m on duty.”

House shook the booze so it sloshed enticingly. “Who’s to know? I’m safely locked up. Snug as a bug in a brig.”

“Yeah, who’s to know?” Donahue laced his coffee liberally. “Cheers!”

_11:55 am_

“You must be Shorty,” House said, squinting at the squat, thickset driver. The sunlight bouncing off the Cadillac’s chrome trim hurt his eyes.

“You must be the Doc Swifty told me about,” Shorty answered, grabbing House’s hand and pumping enthusiastically. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He brandished an arm toward the car. “And this is Lucille. The only sixteen cylinder automobile on Oahu and the fastest.” He emphasized the last with a wink.

House whistled appreciatively at the maroon chassis and black thigh-shaped fenders. “She’s a beaut.” He touched the gleaming handle, but Shorty blocked him with a gloved hand, immediately buffing the marred finish to pristine condition with his handkerchief.

“Nobody drives my baby but me.”

“It was worth a try,” House said, shrugging. He wound around to the passenger’s side.

House enjoyed the breeze from the side window as the car sped down the road.

Shorty filled him on Swifty’s instructions. “You’ll find new identification in the glove compartment box. A pal of mine who lives in a secluded home in the foothills will put you up. It’s a shack, but nobody will bother you there. Do you speak Spanish? A steamer for South America departs in two days time.”

“That’s swell, Shorty.” House checked his watch. “Is the Royal Hawaiian on the way to your friend? I promised to meet someone in a couple of hours.”

“Are you crazy?” The car skidded to stop at the side of the road. “Waikiki isn’t safe. There’s talk that a big-time Mafioso’s girlfriend got a yen to visit the islands. He sent a cotillion of handpicked men with her. The place is crawling with muscle.”

“Coterie,” House corrected absent-mindedly. He could feel the net drawing tighter, but Wilson was expecting him at two.

“Yeah, that’s what I said, a cotillion—when there’s more than one coterie. Stick with me, Doc and you’ll learn somethin’. But I’m straining off the point. Set one foot on Waikiki and you’re done for.”

House rubbed his forehead. If he had to abandon Wilson again, at least this time he should explain why. He pointed to a fruit stand and cluster of shops on the next corner. “Drop me off there. I have some shopping to do.”

Sitting at a weathered gray picnic table under a shady palm, House chewed on a peeled stalk of sugar cane, rereading his note to Wilson.

 __YOU UNDERSTAND THE IMPORTANCE OF RIPPING OFF A BANDAGE QUICKLY, SO I'LL GIVE IT TO YOU  
STRAIGHT. I'M STANDING YOU UP.

I'LL SPARE YOU THE BORING DETAILS. IT'S ABOUT THE MOB AND THE FEDS, AND ME CAUGHT IN  
THE MIDDLE. IF I'M ABOARD THE ASAMA WHEN IT SAILS THROUGH THE GOLDEN GATE, I WON'T BE  
AROUND FOR ANOTHER WINTER. HAWAII WAS MY LAST CHANCE FOR ESCAPE. I THOUGHT WE COULD  
SPEND A FEW HOURS TOGETHER, BUT "BEST LAID PLANS."

Satisfied, he scrawled a nearly illegible “Sorry” at the bottom of the page that could be misread for “Sincerely.” He hesitated before stuffing the letter into the envelope and sealing it. It was as close to a love letter he could write. House hoped Wilson would read between the lines before tearing it to pieces.

* * *

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000b61e2/)

  


Postcard of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel

Wilson thanked the driver and tipped lavishly for the tour of Honolulu and making good on his boast—delivering him to the hotel with fifteen minutes to spare.

Surveying the palatial lobby, slightly more intimate than Grand Central Station, he collapsed into a plump chair with a view of the entrance. The plush cushions sucked at him like quicksand, dashing his efforts to keep his “colonial” white linen suit wrinkle free. Bobbing in his seat, he managed to smooth out the worst offenders.

He relaxed into the back cushion as unseen portals admitted cross-breezes that brushed the sweat from his face as gently as the fingers of a lover. The sound of a ukulele wafted on the cool air.

He idly stroked the velvet petals of the lei bestowed upon him by a beautiful, raven-haired hula dancer when he stepped off the ship. The delicate scent mingled with the floral arrangements placed around the room. Some of the flowers he recognized. He had helped his grandmother plant rose bushes and gladiolus bulbs in her garden. Orchids he learned about when he purchased corsages for his prom dates. Some didn’t appear to be flowers at all, but a riotous collection of bristles and bird’s beaks.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. His imagination was running amok. On the island tour he wasn’t sure whether he had seen a stream of smoke against the dark foliage growing on a steep mountainside, or had hallucinated a waterfall’s misty veil. He hadn’t slept much since sharing his cabin with House.

Eyelids heavy, he tilted his neck against the pillow edge and closed his eyes. House always ran late. He could risk a catnap while waiting.

The palm trees in the courtyard had grown shadows by the time he awoke. His watch showed more than an hour had passed. A dull ache in his chest warned him House had played him for a sap, sending him on a wild goose chase.

“Has Gregory House checked into his room? I’m James Wilson.”

“Aloha, Mr. Wilson.” The desk clerk welcomed him with a sunny smile. He glanced at the register. “Mr. House hasn’t arrived, but a messenger dropped off a package for you.” The man disappeared into a back room and returned with a basket of fruit. Not tastefully displayed, protected in sparkling cellophane, or tied up with a lush bow. It was humble wicker stuffed with tropical fruit. An envelope was crammed between a pineapple and a papaya. Wilson recognized the scrawl as House’s.

“Your room is ready, sir,” the clerk announced. “Please sign the register, and a bellhop will escort you to your room.”

Wilson plucked the envelope from the basket and pried the flap open with his thumb. His throat filled with dust as he tried to speak. “Wait. I might not need it.”

He unfolded the paper.

“Say cheese!”

He looked up as a camera’s blinding, white flash went off in his face. A swirling blue sun dominated his vision. While he tried to blink it away, the letter disappeared from his hand, and there was the sound of tearing paper. Closing one eye, he tried to gaze past the spinning dot. He could make out a man leaning against the registration desk wearing a bright blue shirt and a bushy thing on his head. Wilson huffed a breath when he recognized the voice.

“While Dr. Livingstone over there is indisposed, I’ll sign for both rooms.”

* * *

  
**Slang**  
Cup of joe = cup of coffee  
Lam = on the run  
[Tin Pan Alley](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tin_Pan_Alley) = Designation referring to popular music.  
[ Jazz Age Slang](http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm)  
[Dirty 30s! - Slang of the 30s](http://www.paper-dragon.com/1939/slang.html)  



	12. Chapter 12

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000dkpe2/)  
Hawaiian Travel Poster from the 1930s

**Part 10**

Waiting for the elevator, House watched as Wilson patted his pocket and peeled off a five-dollar bill from his money clip, handing it to the bellhop. He plucked the small valise and fruit basket from the uniformed arms. “I ran out of smokes. Would you bring a couple of packs up to my room, please?”

“May I show you to your room first, sir?” the young man asked, looking slightly anxious.

“No need. I’ll find it. Keep the change.”

The bellhop visibly brightened.

“For half a fin you can have mine.” House flashed his crumpled pack.

Wilson rolled his eyes. “It’s not even full.”

House gaped at it in mocking disbelief. “Why, you’re absolutely right.” House jerked his head in the direction of the scurrying bellhop, and addressed the eager young man standing attentively by his side. “Bring a carton up to my room, pronto,” he ordered, ignoring the outstretched palm.

“Here.” Wilson heaved a sigh and pressed cash into the clerk’s hand.

In the elevator, House pinned Wilson to the wall. “Alone at last.”

Wilson dumped the valise and basket onto the floor, fruit scattering everywhere. He answered House’s hungry kiss by leaning forward and parting his lips.

* * *

“We’re getting careless.” Wilson loosened his tie and tossed it on a chair. “Do you think the woman saw us kissing when the elevator opened on our floor?”

“What if she did?” House picked up the silk and yanked on it, testing its strength before draping it on the bedpost. True to the brochure, the bed was full-size. “We’ll be gone in a few hours.”

He went to the dresser mirror and peered into it, satisfied with his reflection. With sunglasses, grass hat, and camera slung around his neck, even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. He scratched at his stubbled chin. “What do you think about me growing a beard?”

Wilson was on him quick as a shot, removing the trappings of his disguise and kissing him. “Mmm, I could get used to it.” He began unbuttoning House’s aloha shirt. “It goes with your new beachcomber look.”

Barely controlling his desire, House returned the favor by undoing the front of Wilson’s white shirt and pulling out the shirttails. He cinched Wilson around the waist as his hand loosened the buckle and dived under the trousers. Little Wilson twitched in his hands, and big Wilson sucked on his collarbone, begging for more. He did what he could to accommodate the unspoken plea, and cupped Wilson’s balls.

Wilson threw back his head. “Are we… are we even going to make it to the bed?”

“Eventually.” House guided him toward it and sank down at the foot of the mattress, liberating the trousers from around Wilson's hips. “Mind standing for a while?” He interpreted the fingers scrabbling through his hair as a yes, and applied his tongue to the tip of Wilson’s swollen member.

* * *

Basking in the sunset of his afterglow, House stretched his arm up and tugged playfully on the makeshift rope of knotted napkins attached to the headboard. It was almost as good as the tie. Sometimes Wilson’s ingenuity surprised him.

Snoring peacefully beside him, Wilson’s head rested on House’s upper arm. House ran the back of his fingers against the sandy cheek. He threw caution to the wind and kissed it. As long as Wilson wasn’t wise to his emotions, he could afford to be romantic.

Untwining slowly from the tangle of legs and sheets, House pulled on his boxers and grabbed a pack of cigarettes and matches on his way to the balcony. The stars were beginning to glitter in the evening sky. Below, two runners were creating a pathway of lit torches. In the flickering firelight, the silhouettes of the palm trees undulated like hula dancers. He inhaled the rich aroma of tobacco and listened to a mix of laughter and beating drums wafting to the room. They were comforting sounds.

Shorty would be downstairs, tapping his foot, waiting to whisk him away. House had agreed not to stay past sunset, but he had put off telling Wilson about his plans to remain on the island. There had been opportunities—a lull after their second tumble in bed, and when they had dined on room service, but why spoil paradise? He supposed there was no more putting it off.

“House, come back to bed.” Wilson said. Head propped up on one elbow, hair tousled, and eyes slightly askew from sleep, he looked criminally young and irresistible.

House shook his head. “It’s getting late.”

Wilson checked his watch lying on the nightstand. “We have more than enough time before the visitor’s warning whistle. Leave the balcony door open so we don’t miss it.”

“That’s cutting it close, Mr. Careful.”

“Listen to the drums, smell the fresh air. This is the life, House.” Wilson flopped against the pillows and rubbed his chest. “C’mere.” He crooked his fingers. “One last time.”

 _One last time_. How could he refuse the invitation? House climbed into the bed, passing the cigarette over to Wilson, who puffed once and put it out.

Taking advantage of every inch of the mattress, he grappled playfully, pitching and rolling. Wilson’s eyes shone in the dim light, but his mouth was set in a thin line. House knew that look. Wilson took his pleasure seriously. He was flipped on his back, Wilson straddling him. Champagne bubbles fizzled over his nipples. He moaned as Wilson lapped at the rivulets. Two could play at this game. House wrestled to the top position and dug his hand into the ice bucket, smearing crushed ice over Wilson’s torso. He rubbed his cold hand on Wilson’s crotch, provoking him to thrust upward with need.

Wilson pulled House by his shoulders, pressing their bodies close. Wilson’s legs locked around his so they shared the same skin. “I can’t get enough of you.” Wilson whispered.

“It’s mutual,” House answered softly, recognizing the honestly of their statements. They were beyond giving and taking. Wilson’s gratification was his, and his was Wilson’s.

He nuzzled and nipped Wilson in places that got the most reaction and was rewarded with spicy pinches that made him dizzy with passion. His arousal soared as he cut through Wilson’s civilized veneer and freed the frenzied Neanderthal who had lain dormant all this time. The bed creaked under their gymnastics. If it had fallen through the floor, House would never have noticed, busy as he was thrusting repeatedly, burrowing deep until his stomach was flat against Wilson’s ass. He trembled as muscle contractions reduced him to mindlessness. He rode the waves until Wilson shuddered underneath him, taking House over the edge.

Bones turned to rubber, House collapsed onto the bed. Before the sheet of sweat chilled his skin, Wilson swept the blanket over him and pulled him into a protective embrace.

Slowly, House drifted back to reality. A hand caressed his arm and dark eyes filled his field of vision.

“House,” Wilson coaxed. “We have to go back to the ship.”

House moved to an upright position, his back against the headboard. “First, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Can’t it wait?’ Wilson stole a kiss then rolled out of bed, heading toward the bathroom.

House heard the shower. He padded into the bathroom and climbed in behind Wilson. Stealing the tile of soap, he worked up a lather and spread it over Wilson’s back and shoulders, slowing as he massaged the creamy foam into the buttock’s curves. “About San Francisco.”

A boastful whistle pierced through the sound of running water.

“Jesus.” Wilson kissed House and rinsed quickly. Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed two towels and handed one to House. ”First warning. We have to hurry.”

Tying the plush terrycloth around his waist, House limped into the bedroom. Wilson already had his pants and shirt on. He was threading a cufflink through the holes in the cuff, snapping it into place.

“You don’t have to rush. There’s more than an hour before the ship sails.” House stared down at the carpet. “Listen, I have something important to tell you.”

Wilson looked up from his task. “What?”

Someone banged on the door. “House! You in there? We gotta leave!”

Wilson pointed. “Who—?” His hand was on his chest. Panic showed in his eyes.

“It’s my business associate. Wait on the balcony while I get rid of him.”

House grabbed his cane in case it was necessary to bar Shorty from entering, and opened the door. Shorty’s face had the same anxious expression as Wilson’s had. “I’ll be right down.”

“That mafia dame I was tellin’ you about is throwin’ a party downstairs. Don’t go into the lobby. Take the service elevator and go out the back.”

“Where is the back of this joint?

Shorty spread his arms. “Do I look like a traffic cop?”

“All right. Wait here. We’ll go down together.”

Closing the door, House shouted, “Hey, Wilson! The coast is clear.” He tossed the towel on the bed and began dressing. Last button in place, the room was awfully quiet. The drums had stopped beating. Also, Wilson hadn’t touched him in two minutes.

He went to the balcony. Wilson was slumped over in a wicker chair, arm dangling like a discarded marionette.

Rushing over, House leaned heavily on his cane and crouched down. Wilson hadn’t passed out, but was on the verge. His eyes were glazed, breathing labored, and pulse thready.

Heart failure. “Wilson, stay with me!”

As House searched frantically through Wilson’s pockets for medication, he felt a slight tug on his sleeve.

“Nitro. Jacket.”

Back in the room he checked the pockets and came up empty. An unraveled seam told an ugly story. A small vial of nitroglycerin could have easily slipped through.

He went to the hall. Shorty snapped to attention. “Ready?”

Ignoring the question, House made a beeline to the elevators, Shorty trailing behind. He snatched a gaudy flower arrangement from a table and answered Shorty’s unasked question as he listed back to the room. “The foxgloves contain digitalis which works like nitroglycerin. Unfortunately, in vegetable form it would kill an elephant, but the water that the stems marinate in should be a safe dilution.” Inside, he tossed the flowers onto the floor and poured a small quantity of the water from the vase into a glass.

Back at Wilson’s side, he raised his head so he could drink. “One sip at a time,” he ordered. Taking away the glass after each swallow, he checked Wilson’s pulse and pressed his ear to his chest. Even with the small dosage, the drug could just as easily kill as save him. By the fourth, Wilson stopped wheezing and squeezed his hand.

House squeezed back. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Wilson offered a crooked smile and blinked his eyes in disagreement.

“Shut up and trust your doctor,” House said, radiating confidence to support his lie. Before he could be caught out, he switched his focus onto the glass and spilled the contents onto the wooden floorboards.

“Should I call for an ambulance, Doc?” Shorty asked, leaning against the balcony door.

House hadn’t realized Shorty had followed him into the hotel room. He stood up. “How long will it take to get here?”

“Ten minutes.”

“And ten back. Too long.”

The ship’s whistle blasted a second warning. He gazed at the ocean and back at Shorty. “How long if you drive?”

“Six.”

House pointed to Wilson. “He needs oxygen immediately. How fast can you make it to the ship?”

“If I take a shortcut, under three.” Shorty took off his hat and scratched his head. “How’s a ship compare to a hospital?”

“It’s stuffed to the gills with the newest equipment and a heart specialist oversees the whole shootin’ match.” House returned to Wilson and knelt, placing Wilson’s arm on his shoulder, and tried hoisting him up, but his thigh protested at the additional weight. “Shorty, I need your help.”

* * *

**Slang**  
Fin = Five dollar bill  
Pronto = Immediately  
[ Jazz Age Slang](http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm)  
[Dirty 30s! - Slang of the 30s](http://www.paper-dragon.com/1939/slang.html)

 **Warning:** Foxgloves contain digitalis and are considered highly toxic. Also, an incorrect dose of digitalis can be fatal. Only in a Housian universe or fanfiction can the use of foxgloves be employed in this way.


	13. Chapter 13

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000ehdt0/)

  


Sheet Music for _Aloha Oe_  


**Part 11**

He hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until the sound of plastic crackled near his ear.

The nurse was stowing the oxygen tent’s stiff curtain behind his bed. “Shall we see how we do without it? The doctor will be here in ten minutes.”

Trembling, Wilson propped himself up on his elbows to scoot higher on the pillows. The nurse clucked disapprovingly and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, pushing him down.

She cranked the bed until he sat upright. “Have you forgotten you’re in a hospital bed, doctor?”

“Thanks, Mary.” Wilson smiled politely. Sitting up, he became aware he wasn’t alone in the white draped enclosure. Richard was off to the side wearing an anxious expression that vanished as soon as Wilson made eye contact.

“You’re looking swell, Jimmy, but don’t overdo it.”

“You’re not suggesting I cancel my carioca _and_ rumba lessons for tonight? ”

“Well, one or the other.” Richard relaxed in his chair. “Say, you missed a good time yesterday. The passengers in steerage put on a Kabuki show.”

“I saw it before we landed in Honolulu. All the women’s parts were played by men.”

“Have to admit they made charming girls.”

Caught off guard by his brother’s remark, Wilson swallowed the wrong way and went into an uncontrollable coughing fit.

Richard rose from his seat. “Jimmy, should I call the doctor?”

“Don’t—“ Wilson choked out and frantically waved his hands.

The curtains fluttered open and Kimura appeared. “What’s this? Is something wrong with my star patient?”

Wilson flinched as Kimura pulled the flap of his gown aside and placed a cold stethoscope against his back. It was warmer when he pressed it against Wilson's chest.

“God, I’m dying for a smoke,” Richard announced, patting nervously at his jacket.

Kimura checked Wilson’s pulse. When he was finished, he said, “Visiting hours ended fifteen minutes ago. You’re welcome to smoke outside.” He turned to Wilson and smiled reassuringly. “A tickle in your throat, perhaps? You’re showing steady improvement. How are you feeling without oxygen?”

“All right.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear. I’ll check back in half an hour. Let’s see if we can wean you off the tanks before landing in port in four days. It will make it easier to transfer you to a hospital.”

While Kimura entered information on the chart, the room became very still. It suddenly registered that House had never visited, or maybe Wilson couldn’t remember. “Has anyone else been in to see me?”

A pained expression flitted across Kimura’s face.

“No one,” Richard answered. “Many of the passengers asked about you, but you weren’t up to seeing anyone.”

“House didn’t come?”

The question was met with an awkward silence.

Kimura hung the chart at the foot of the bed. “You two need to talk.” He looked sternly at Richard. “I’ll give you five more minutes, but don’t upset my patient.”

“Well?” Wilson ignored the mounting tightness in his chest.

“Your pal, House,” Richard spoke slowly. “Isn’t who you think he is. He’s on the ship because he’s under arrest.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a G-man, Donahue, escorting him back to the States. He blew a gasket when he found out House escaped. Donahue chased your buddy halfway around the world so he could throw the book at him unless he testified against Morello, the crime boss.” Richard tapped a cigarette from his pack, grimaced, and returned it to his pocket. “I barred him from visiting. He’s a bad influence and his escapade nearly killed you.”

Wilson blinked his eyes in an effort to clear his head. “Are you out of your mind? He’s the one that saved me.”

“Not from where I sit.” Richard’s voice contained that stubborn, unwilling-to-see-reason tone Wilson knew so well.

“Get out, Richard,” he ordered, glaring at his brother until he left the room.

Puzzle pieces fell into place. House’s warning to stay away from Donahue. House looking solemn in the hotel room, repeatedly trying to tell him something. Why hadn’t House told him earlier? Everyone knew Morello’s reputation as a cold-hearted murderer.

Wilson scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands. House must hate him for his untimely collapse in the hotel and foiling his escape.

But Richard had said he had barred House. That meant House had tried to see him. A foggy memory resurfaced—the scent of tobacco, House singing _Aloha Oe_ and strumming a ukulele in the middle of the night. He also recalled the ghostly strains of _East of the Sun and West of the Moon_ played on a guitar. He thought it was a hallucination while he floated in and out of consciousness. Now he was sure it had been real.

Wilson inspected the room. How had House managed to serenade him? The infirmary had no deck. He noticed a few feet away there was a porthole, open a notch. The second-class deck was right above.

He wiped his eyes. House had visited, and left a calling card in the only way he could.

Well, if House couldn’t come to him, he would go to House.

Pushing away from the pillow, Wilson concentrated on inching his legs from under the blanket and dangling them over the edge. The tiny task left him breathless and shaky. He could feel a drop of sweat roll down his cheek. One hand on the guardrail, he placed his feet on the floor and stood for two beats before his knees gave out. He grabbed for the bar with his other hand. Panting, he clung to it, rationalizing that the worst that could happen would be to lie on the floor until help arrived. Miraculously, he dragged himself back onto the bed.

His little field trip was nothing to brag about but it was a start. He would try again later and keep on trying. He had four days before the _Asama_ arrived in San Francisco.

* * *

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000egg5h/)

  


The Golden Gate Bridge. Under Construction from 1933 to 1937

Resting his elbows on the damp rail, House peered at the steel monoliths soaring into the sky, the tops pricking the cloud cover, and threatening a downpour. He raised his collar to prevent the mist from stinging his skin.

Donahue gazed in child-like appreciation. “I wanna take the missus and kids to San Francisco when the bridge is finished.”

“Don’t bother to send me a postcard,” House said. “Unless it has a saw blade stuck to it.”

“Does that mean you decided not to work with us?”

House shrugged. “I flipped a coin. Heads I'm shot in the head in the courthouse. Tails, a shiv slits my throat in the big house.”

It really didn’t matter to him anymore. Kimura had sworn him to secrecy and shared Wilson’s x-rays. The aortic valve was shot.

He dug into his pocket and thumbed a glossy photograph of Wilson that he had snapped in the hotel lobby. Wilson had months to live, six tops.

“For the record, I wish you had never returned to the ship,” Donahue explained. “You’re one of the good guys.”

“I had no choice. And do me a favor, don’t tell anybody. I spent years working on my bad reputation.” House turned around and was about to lean his back on the rail when he saw Wilson and his brother arguing in a passageway. Evidently, Wilson got his way because he was hunched over and walking toward House. He appeared very frail.

“Donahue, could you give me some privacy?”

“Yeah. Don’t go jumping overboard.” Donahue backed away.

Close up, House could see Wilson shivering.

“You shouldn’t be out.”

“And miss the view of San Francisco?”

“It’s not the New York skyline.”

“There’s nothing in the world like it.” Wilson answered. He tilted his head discreetly toward Donahue. “You made a new friend?”

“He's my free ride. That’s my neighbor, Donahue, I was telling you about.” He smirked. “Turns out his bark is worse than his dentures. He gave me his extra train ticket to Los Angeles. And he’s bad at gin rummy.”

Wilson mouth twisted into a smile. “Good for you. Who could ask for more?”

House shrugged. Noticing how Wilson’s knuckles had turned white while gripping the railing, House asked, “Mind if we sit down? The wet weather is hard on my leg.” He transferred his cane to his other arm, and grabbed Wilson at the elbow under the pretense of needing support. He led him slowly to the nearest bench.

When they were settled, House asked bluntly, “Tell me the truth. How are you?”

“Fine. Kimura insisted I drop by the local hospital for additional tests and to adjust my medications, but it's just a formality. After that, Richard and I hop on a train for New York.”

Rolling his cane between his palms, House listened to Wilson lie through his teeth. Being out in public with Donahue and Richard watching was sorely testing his patience. Wilson’s stilted speech and barely displaying any curiosity about Donahue was ringing false. The back of his neck tingled. Somehow Wilson had got wind of his situation.

“…miss you.”

House raised his head. “What’s that?”

“I’m going to miss you,” Wilson whispered as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Same here,” House answered quietly. “But hey, we’re not through.” House lit a cigarette and placed it between Wilson’s fingers where it sat and smoldered. “I’ll be tied up with business for several months on the West Coast, most likely a year. When I’m done we can reconnect. Should we decide on a date?”

“A year?” Wilson passed the cigarette back without smoking it. “I should be fully recovered and practicing medicine by then. How about New Year’s? A year from when we met in Shanghai?”

House puffed on the cigarette. He felt the tap of a raindrop splash on his shoe. “Do you know the _Paris Café_ near the Brooklyn Bridge?”

“Sure. A stone’s throw from the East River.”

“Bring your checkbook. The place has a wall-length mirror.” House smiled wickedly.

Wilson broke down and laughed. It was old times again, and House wanted more than anything to kiss him, but from the corner of his eye he saw Richard coming over.

“James, it’s about to pour. Come inside.” Richard stared at House, daring him to interfere. “We can wait in your stateroom until the ship’s in port.”

Wilson reluctantly got to his feet.

House levered on his cane, joining him. “There’s no need for us to say goodbye.”

“Till we meet again,” Wilson said softly.

“Until then, Wilson.” House bowed his head and listened to the receding footsteps. He looked up just in time to see the Wilson boys engaged in another quarrel which ended with Wilson pushing his brother away.

He tottered back to House and stood in front of him, shoulders heaving as he caught his breath.

House stepped forward. “This is one time I’m siding with your brother. Go inside.”

“I’m fine.” Wilson stretched out his arm, preventing House from coming closer while he gulped air. “Give me a minute.”

House waited quietly as Wilson returned to a reasonable version of himself.

“Is everyone watching?” Wilson asked.

“If by everyone you mean, Richard, Donahue, the Captain, a half-dozen crew members, and a handful of nosy passengers, yes.”

“Good!” Wilson latched onto House’s lapels and pulled him into the most savage kiss House had ever experienced.

House grabbed Wilson by the waist and held on tight.

* * *

  
**Slang**  
Blew a gasket = lost his/her temper  
Shiv = homemade knife  
[ Jazz Age Slang](http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm)  
[Dirty 30s! - Slang of the 30s](http://www.paper-dragon.com/1939/slang.html)

 **References** :  
[Hall Lippincott’s Journal](http://www.halllippincott.info/?p=3169) and his voyage on the _Asama Maru_  
Lyrics from [_Aloha Oe_](http://www.huapala.org/Aloha/Aloha_Oe.html)


	14. Epilogue

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/srsly_yes/pic/000cx5gz/)

  


Manhattan Skyline and Brooklyn Bridge, 1935

**Epilogue**

_New Year’s Eve, 1935_

Donahue pushed through the giddy crowd to the man waiting at the bar and sank down onto the empty stool. "Happy New Year, Richard," he said without enthusiasm.

"Same to you. Thanks for meeting me here." Richard crushed out his cigarette and slid an empty glass across the ring-stained wood. He pointed to an open bottle. "Do you have anything against scotch? The drinks are on me tonight."

"That'll do me swell." He nodded his appreciation as Richard filled the tumbler. "House instructed me to be sure you paid."

"House would tell you that," Richard replied. "I had hoped to meet up with him again and talk about James.” He peered grimly at his half-empty glass. “Apparently, he knew my brother better than I ever did.”

Donahue ignored the bitter jab. "Sorry about your brother. I saw the obit." He tipped the glass to his mouth. "Late April, wasn't it?"

"Yes. It happened very fast." Richard's voice cracked. "He had us all fooled. We thought he was out of the woods, going for walks every afternoon. Building up his strength. One day he was late for supper. Next thing we knew there was a call from the hospital." Richard pulled two letters from inside his breast pocket and tossed them on the counter. One sealed, was addressed to House. The other had Richard’s name written on it and was torn open.

"Evidently, he suspected he didn't have long to live. He directed me to meet House here, at the _Paris Café_ on New Year's Eve and deliver this letter. When I couldn't locate him, I contacted you."

Donahue shook his head. "House died in prison early April, almost the way he had predicted. The coroner said it was a clean and professional hit." He pulled two envelopes from his pocket almost identical to Richard’s except “Wilson” was printed in capital letters on one. "You know, House saved my life and I let him down. I can never repay him." He gulped down his scotch. "God, I hate my job.”

Richard studied his fingernails. "Times are tough."

"Yeah, but sometimes you gotta draw the line. I turned in my handcuffs and gun this afternoon.” He refilled his glass. “While I was traveling the little woman socked away my overseas pay and put a down payment on a chicken ranch. We're packing up the family and moving to California.”

"Can’t imagine you as anything but a cop.”

"I have a softer side.” He leaned toward Richard, speaking in a low undertone. "Between you and me, I can't pretend to understand what House and your brother had, but it was something… real, you know?" He took another swallow from his glass. “And sweet Mary, even when me and the future missus was dating, we never kissed like those two did that day on the boat. I wanted to jump in the bay to cool off. Er, no disrespect to your brother."

Richard gave him a long look before answering. "None taken."

The strains of _Auld Lang Syne_ began playing. Richard refreshed their glasses and produced two more, which he filled. "One for House and one for James. You don't mind helping me ring in the New Year according to my brother's request, do you?"

"The toast? I'm game if you are."

At the stroke of midnight he mimicked Richard and swung his arm back, preparing to pitch his glass at the mirror behind the bar.

While the tumbler was still cupped in his hand, a long crack appeared down the length of the mirror. A second fracture followed almost immediately, creating a spiderweb of lines. Within seconds, a silver avalanche crashed onto the floor.

He and Richard gaped at each other and the naked frame.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Donahue exclaimed, a shiver running down his spine. "What the hell happened? Look at my glass! It was full. Now it's empty."

"What the…?" Richard ran his finger inside the glass he was holding. “Mine too. It’s bone-dry.”

A heavyset man in a bartender's apron thumped his way in their direction. "Hey, what are you doin'? New Year's Eve or no, you can't destroy my bar."

"We didn't do anything.” Donahue displayed his intact glass. “Does a subway run underneath the building?"

"Nowhere near. Now, don't give me none of your stories. Pay up."

"Well, I do happen to have a sum of money my brother gave me…” Richard slid an envelope full of cash toward the bartender.

The man counted the wad of bills and pocketed it. He pointed to the door. "A Happy New Year to ya' and get out. Don't be showin' your faces in here again."

Outside Donahue shook his head. "That's one for the books." He tapped the letter with Wilson’s name written on it against his hand. "What should I do with this?”

“Give it to me.” Richard snatched it from him, and moved under a streetlamp, slitting open a corner. “Bet you a buck it’s blank.”

“Have you no decency?” Donahue pulled the envelope away and hastily pressed his thumb over the small tear that revealed there was a message. “After what we just witnessed?” He snapped his fingers and ordered, “Hand over your brother’s letter.”

"You're not a flatfoot anymore. You can't arrest me." Richard said, but reached inside his coat. “If you’re so keen on it, here." He lit a cigarette. "What's your brilliant plan?”

Donahue stared helplessly at the envelopes, hoping for an epiphany, and then brightened. "Come with me and find out."

With the East River lapping at his feet, Donahue tore up the letters and threw the fragments into the river. He watched as the current swirled the scraps together and carried them out to sea.

  


_The End_  


  


* * *

  
_One Way Passage_ (1932), [trailer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8A4EDh6xJB8)  
TCM has a lock on this film. It's available through Netflix and the DVD is sold through Amazon. A little Googling will yield downloadable torrents.

[West of the Moon Time Capsule](http://srsly-yes.livejournal.com/179290.html#cutid1)—the complete collection of illustrations, videos, and references from the story plus items not included in the fic.


End file.
